


Where Yellow Petals Wilt

by TheRealLifeCath



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, How Do I Tag, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mentioned Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Mystery, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oxenfurt (The Witcher), Part-Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Lives, Post Season 1, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, This will be a long one, a bit - Freeform, no beta we die like renfri, post mountain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealLifeCath/pseuds/TheRealLifeCath
Summary: Most people hold baggage. It's natural to carry around the worst of your life with you. But Jaskier was taught to shed all that darkness, and only carry the light with him. As a bard, he did so, willingly, refusing to let the anguish of his life haunt him on his journeys. So when his painful past comes back to bite him on the ass, he must face it head-on, but this time not alone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 116





	1. When Yellow Petals Are Rained On, They Thrive

**Author's Note:**

> SO I'M FINALLY WRITING A MULTICHAPTER FANFIC
> 
> Look don't expect regular posts from me, I have a very chaotic brain, but hopefully, this will help give me some kind of stability, and something to keep me busy.

Lettenhove wasn’t a stranger to storms.

The closed-off, gated city had experienced bad weather for decades; enduring the worst of torrential rain, lightning storms, cyclones, tornadoes, tsunamis... the whole lot. There was only one week on record where the quiet city received somewhat _good_ weather, and even then it was cloudy at best.

In some outer regions, in the towns nearby, there were rumours - myths - that Lettenhove was cursed. Not a soul could explain the years of bad weather without resorting back to “Twas a curse, some old hag I tell ya! The Viscounts of old must’ve pissed her off!”

Yet no one could prove this theory to be the truth. Not even a mage herself could figure out the reason Lettenhove had experienced such bad weather.

But the reason why it did, isn’t the point of this story, no, instead the reason why it all changed - why Lettenhove came to be known as the sunshine city where buttercups grow - is the reason for telling.

***

_“Hush my child, not too long now,” Lilia whispers against the thunder, cradling her baby close to her chest as she makes her way down the old crooked path. “You’ll be safe soon.”_

_As the wind howls, pushing trees over with its immense force, Lilia takes careful but hurried steps. Her feet are raw and blistered, her arms are growing tired but she must push on with the hours of the night fading away. And it must be by foot, for if she uses her magic now, this far from the Fae Court - she could harm both herself and her baby._

_So she presses on, doing her best to shelter her child - her everything - from the crackle of lightning and downpour of rain. But even with her body shielding the young infant, the noises, the sense of dread and terror causes the baby to wail._

_As Lilia reaches the large iron gates of Lettenhove, she pauses to check on her child, tearing up as the infant cries and cries - refusing to calm at any coming second._

_So Lilia continues, closer to her destination now._

_“My dear don’t cry,” It’s a useless affirmation, but it’s more for herself than her baby. “Everything will be alright.”_

_It won’t._

_Lilia has one job here - to get her child to the only person who will give it the love - the home she can't anymore. And then she is to return to the Fae Court, sentenced to life imprisonment... for falling in love with a human._

_This was all her fault. She didn’t follow the fae rules - the law - and now her child, her halfling child would pay the price._

_Breaking through the quiet of the Lettenhove streets, her child screams especially loudly, face wet with tears and rain. With every step she takes, every sob her baby makes, her heart breaks off bit by bit, soon to be rendered utterly shattered._

_It’s not a moment longer before she cries too, already grieving the loss of her, too young, child._

_“My buttercup, you will take comfort in your father’s arms from now on,” And with that, she kneels against the crooked path, still clutching her child tight, glancing up at the large house - a mansion she’s returned to too many times to count. All those times resulted in happiness, this time... not so much._

_The wind howls in tune with broken sobs._

_Without another breath, Lilia kisses her loved one on the nose, clutches him close, and says her muttered goodbyes._

_Claws rip through her heart, or, at least, it feels that way when she is forced to let go of her everything - placing it in a bed of flowers - buttercups to be exact - with the hope that the life he receives will be filled with only laughter and love, and happiness._

_The thunder cracks open the sky, blue lightning spitting down over the horizon. It’s a reminder, that it’s time to go._

_So Lilia does, she gets up, turns, and walks back the way she came... leaving her shattered heart behind her where yellow flowers wilt._

***

“You’re doing it again,” A whiny, utterly annoyed voice derails Jaskier’s train of thought.

With a twirl of his head, he faces the source of the voice, eyes landing on Priscilla, who is sitting opposite him, with four - no, five - books open in front of her. Her eyes flick up from her scribbled notes to Jaskier’s left hand, which is drumming fingers loudly against the wooden table.

“Oh, sorry,” Jaskier quickly mumbles, drawing his hand back to his lap. “Wasn’t aware.”

Priscilla sighs, folding her arms on top of her books.

“I know, what’s wrong?” She asks, eyebrows tugging down to the bridge of her nose.  
Jaskier shrugs, not interested in discussing all the problems he currently is dealing with, for the gazillionth time with Priscilla.

“Ah, no, don’t give me that,” Priscilla mimics his shrug. “Shit, no, I know you better than all your other companions, I don’t fall for it like they do.”

With a tilt of his head, he feigns innocence, “Whatever do you mean?”

Priscilla rolls her eyes.

Which in turn makes Jaskier smile, resting his chin in his left hand as Priscilla stares daggers into his soul.

“You’re lucky I consider you a close friend. If anyone else were to try that shit with me, I would’ve thrown a book at them,” She huffs. “So stop being an idiot and tell me what’s wrong. Something has been bothering you all morning... more than usual - even considering your overall crappy mood lately.”

Someone from across the library shouts a string of curse words, resulting in the head of the Library to kick them out.

Jaskier takes the advantage of that distraction, and sinks back in his seat, hoping that Priscilla lets the topic go.

But, of course, she doesn’t.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz if I have to beat the information out of you with my godforsaken lute, I will -”

“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

At that, Priscilla scrunches up a piece of parchment and throws it at the other bard’s head.

Jaskier chuckles, reaching for the balled up parchment as he fixes his hair. He’s not about to let Priscilla win the battle so he throws it right back at her. It hits her on the nose, bounces off, and goes flying back down onto the table.

While Jaskier laughs, Priscilla does not.

“Jaskier I swear -”

“Yes yes I know, my feelings. Seriously what’s the point? It’s not like talking about what’s bothering me - for the hundredth time this week by the way - is going to fix anything. Not going to solve the barely sleeping issue or the lack of appetite issue - and _definitely_ not going to solve the ‘missing a certain brooding Witcher issue’.”

Priscilla closes her books, and folds her arms again, turning her attention completely to Jaskier. She’s heard all this before. But that doesn’t mean it worries her any less.

“You’re still not sleeping well? What happened last night? Nightmares again?”

Jaskier slumps in his chair, looking down at his hands, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess. It took me forever to fall asleep, and when I finally did, it wasn’t for long... and yeah I had a nightmare, again.”

“About what this time?”

There’s a pause as Jaskier thinks of all the scattered imagery and chaotic colours that formulated themselves into a nightmare the night before.

“I’m not even sure,” he fidgets with the hem of his doublet. “There was rain, I’m sure, storming even... but...”

The next words don’t come, and instead, he stares out the window, at the wind rustling a nearby oak tree. He can’t remember most of the dream, but he swears it felt familiar, like a memory almost.

_Hush my child._

When the seconds drag on, and Jaskier doesn’t finish, Priscilla leans across the table and prods his arm with her quill, eyebrows raised.

Jaskier jolts and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Priscilla takes her turn to shrug, “It’s fine, just finish what you were going to say.”

He ponders it, considers if speaking it aloud may help squash the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach but... he’s brought Priscilla into enough of his problems.

Last winter when he _accidentally_ slept with a pregnant wife’s husband (how was he supposed to know he was married?) Priscilla talked the wife down from murdering Jaskier in cold blood. Priscilla received some very nasty words in result, and so Jaskier promised himself he wouldn’t bring her into any more of his problems.

“You know what, I don’t even remember, you know how dreams are?” He does his best to sound convincing, plastering his best fake smile to his face.

The look Priscilla gives him is one of complete suspicion; eye narrowed to slits, nose scrunched up, mouth downturned. But she doesn’t push, opting to organise her books and quills into a neat pile instead.

“Ready to leave?” She asks, standing.

Jaskier nods, rising to his feet as well, relieved that the conversation over - subject dropped for now.

“Good cause I am starving,” Priscilla groans, pulling her bag, that carries her books, over her shoulder. “And in real need of a drink, my neck is killing me.”

“Tavern it is then.”

Oxenfurt isn’t the kindest of cities.

It’s a bustling life of creativity and finer things, sure, but a life of kindness it is not.

And of course, Jaskier didn’t realise this until the winter after his first year of travelling with Geralt. He came back from a life of adventure, a life he genuinely enjoyed, to find Oxenfurt was duller - full to the brim with pompous pricks with not an inch of care for others in their hearts.

Every scholar he used to look up to, every professor he used to learn from, every bard he was friends with... he saw them for who they were; assholes.

Except for Priscilla.

She stayed her caring, compassionate self - always writing songs about the misfortunate. She welcomed him back with open arms and a place to rest his head for the winter - until of course, he saved up for his own place. It was a comfort Jaskier didn’t know how to be thankful for.

“Maybe we should stop by Miriam’s place, I promised her I would drop these books off for her to borrow,” Priscilla says as they’re walking down Mainstreet.

Jaskier nods in agreement, although he wishes he could say no. He’s never liked Miriam. She’s Priscilla’s best friend, and she’s as stuck up as the rest of them. Jaskier has always wondered how Priscilla stands her.

“Do you think she’ll mind that I couldn’t find my old Nature studies book? I know she needs it for her class on Monday, but I searched my whole house and not a sign of it,” Priscilla chews at the inside of her mouth, eyes on the busy street ahead.

Jaskier would normally scoff, and reply with some quick-witted comment about Miriam throwing a fit, but he can see the worry in Priscilla’s eyes and doesn’t want to make matters worse.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine if not, we can just steal the expensive sweet wine from her kitchen cabinet,” he jokes, nudging Priscilla’s arm playfully.

An amused smile breaks out on her face despite the clear struggle to _not_ smile.

Jaskier takes that victory, and smiles himself, glancing around at the people bustling around them; buying soaps, buying jewellery, negotiating prices of rare fruits... it’s a colourful sight, but underneath it all lies pure greed.

‘Ah, there you are bitterness, back again,’ he thinks to himself.

“Hey, wait here, think I saw some strawberry soap back there, you know how much my mum loves that soap. I’ll be back in a bit,” Priscilla says, patting him on the shoulder before hurrying off to one of the market stalls.

Jaskier waits right there, thinking of soaps.

***

_“No, Jaskier, put it back. Not wasting coin on unnecessary shit.”_

_Usually, that’s the end of the conversation with Geralt - his growls and grumps indicators for when Jaskier needs to just **drop it** , but this time, Jaskier refuses to back down. _

_“Ah no, Geralt, it is not ‘unnecessary shit’ as your grumpy bum puts it,” Jaskier is quite pleased with the utterly confused expression that’s forming on the Witcher’s face. “It’s soap. And the fact that you would suggest that offends me quite frankly - it’s basic hygiene Geralt, trust me, you of all people need to bathe.”_

_This time, it’s Jaskier’s turn to put his foot down._

_“Now, choose,” He holds up the bars of soap. “Lemongrass or Vanilla.”_

_Geralt sighs and Jaskier swears he sees colour in the witcher’s cheeks. But that has to be a trick of the light, Geralt doesn’t **blush**. _

_“Vanilla.”_

_Jaskier smiles, “See that wasn’t so hard.”_

***

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier returns from his daydreaming to find Priscilla waving a hand in his face, eyebrows raised, and the corner of her mouth twitched up into an amused smile.

“Shit, fuck, sorry,” He curses, looking around him.

‘How many people walked by you? You must have looked crazy,’ he thinks.

“Come on, I’m done and you’ve spent enough time with your head in the clouds,” Priscilla teases, grabbing Jaskier by the arm and pulling him along.

They’re standing in Miriam’s library room.

“So, I see no Nature Studies,” Miriam comments, giving Priscilla an unimpressed look.

Priscilla goes red, scratching the back of her head and staring at the ground. If only Jaskier had the guts to tell Miriam where to stick her fucking rude mouth.

“I couldn’t find it, Miriam, I’m sorry, but to make up for it, I’ll put an extra few coins into the fund jar for your play,” Priscilla promises, clasping her hands together.

Miriam glares, hard for a few seconds before letting go of the tension in her shoulders and nodding

“Fine.”

Priscilla smiles, and they hug for a quick second before Priscilla rushes off to donate to the fund jar. Leaving Jaskier alone with Miriam, something he never likes to be.

It takes less than five seconds of Miriam’s staring before she opens her gob, “So you’re still here, aren’t you usually off with your witcher by now? Winter ends next week.”

Jaskier’s folds his arms over his chest, trying not to let how much that comment affected him, show. He doesn’t need Miriam Smith learning about how Geralt threw him away like dirt. It’s not something he wants to share with the whole city.

“Here to see the cherry trees blossom,” he quips, mouth tugging into a tight smile.

Miriam narrows her eyes, taking a step over.

“He’s not meeting with you this year, is he?” She asks, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk.

His heart stutters, and he wants nothing more than to leave. Instead, he glares daggers at Miriam, telling her to back off with his eyes.

“I believe that’s none of your business.”

She erupts into laughter.

“Oh my god, he fucking deserted you didn’t he?” Miriam exclaims through hysteric laughter. “Oh this is too good, all that bragging about how you travel with a witcher and he does the thing we all wish we could do.”

Jaskier looks away, stares down at the ground as his heart pounds in his throat. There is prickling in his eyes - fuck, he is not crying in front of Miriam.

“Did he finally realise you were too annoying to deal with? Get sick and tired of your constant -”

“Miriam!” Priscilla shouts, entering the room from the left hallway.

Jaskier has never been more relieved in his life to see Priscilla. He just hopes it means they can leave, now.

“Oh come on, Pris, you gotta find this a little bit funny -”

“Bye Miriam, we’re leaving now.”

Priscilla for the second time that day, grabs Jaskier by the arm and pulls him out of the house, and back onto the bustling street.

Two minutes of silent walking and Jaskier’s heart is still pounding, his stomach still swirling with nausea. At least the feeling like he was gonna cry has faded.

“Ugh, I’m so sorry Jaskier,” Priscilla apologises, five minutes down, back near the Mainstreet. “She’s... nasty, don’t know why I put up with her.”

Jaskier looks over at his friend.

Her shiny blonde hair is braided up into a bun, her bright hazel eyes shine under the soft afternoon sun, and her doublet is almost as extravagant as Jaskier’s - instead, being a dull purple than a bright yellow.

In another world, maybe Jaskier could’ve fallen for Priscilla. She’s stunningly gorgeous and has a kind heart. She’s also a bard like him, understands that life.

But in this world, in this universe, her blonde hair isn’t white and her eyes hold not enough gold.

“It’s fine Priscilla, I’m used to Miriam’s shitty attitude by now,” he lies, choosing to pretend that her words didn’t reach his weak heart.

“You sure about that, cause it looked like she really got to you.”

Priscilla stops and for a moment Jaskier is confused, but then he sees the tavern sign overhead and realises they’re already there. Time flies when... you’re having deep conversations with a close friend?

“I... It did, fine, but can we not talk about it please, I’d rather just yeah, not talk about it,” he pleads, stepping up to the tavern front door.

“Okay, okay, sure,” Priscilla agrees.

He really needs a drink now.

“So I was thinking maybe you could stay here for spring since you don’t, you know... have anywhere to go... this year...” Priscilla says, wincing at the last words as they come out of her mouth.

She buries her face behind her large tankard as she drinks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, resting his arms on the table and staring down at the brownish liquid in his cup.

“I don’t know... maybe I’ll just... I was thinking I could just head out alone. I’ve done it before, and God knows I’ve learnt more since then,” Jaskier explains, fingers peeling the old paint off the side of his tankard.

Priscilla goes quiet for a moment before clearing her throat.

“Jask, you’re not seventeen anymore, although you don’t look far off it - damn you and your glowing youthfulness,” She says, with a soft smile, and Jaskier grins back. “But, in all kindness and love, I tell you, you’re going to die out there alone.”

Jaskier huffs, grin disappeared.

“How do you know that? Huh? I’m not fucking dependent on brooding witcher’s in desperate need of emotional stability, I’m capable on my own,” he snaps, slumping back in his, very uncomfortable, chair.

He can feel Priscilla’s heavy gaze on him.

“I know that Jask,” She says, tone laced with concern. “But here in Oxenfurt, not out there in the wildest parts of the continent. Now you up for another round?”

Jaskier sits up straight, sculls down the rest of the ale in his tankard and hands it to Priscilla with a fake smile, “Yep.”

She rolls her eyes and takes it, exiting the table to got get another round.

Waiting patiently, Jaskier leans back in his chair, glancing around the tavern at the familiar faces - all people he knows, acquaintances he’d call them. They’re all people he knows the faces of but not the names.

“You look quite melancholy for someone wearing bright yellow,” A smooth baritone voice comments.

Jaskier lifts his eyes to the dark-haired man now standing next to his table. He’s alright looking, has a scar running down his forearm, recognises it as a ghoul attack. It’s not as impressive as the tens and hundreds of scars littering Geralt’s body but then again, no one could come close to a centuries-old Witcher.

“Well, it’s part of my charm you see, you don’t know how bright and happy I can be until some oaf half asks flirting,” he teases, leaning his arms back on the table, shifting his weight towards the man. He’s done this enough to know exactly how to shape the night.

The man chuckles, takes a seat in Priscilla’s former seat and clasps his hands on the table.

As soon as he’s leaning closer, his hands rested near Jaskier’s own, his demeanour changes and the smile drops from his face. Jaskier’s stomach drops with it.

“I’m not here to flirt, I have an important message for you but we can’t talk here,” The man whispers, eyes flitting around nervously. “Meet me tomorrow night, underneath the northbridge, we’ll talk then.”

The man goes to get up but Jaskier is quick to follow, grabbing the man’s wrist to stop him.

His heart is pounding in his chest again, and his head is spinning, full of questions - the what, the who, the why.

“Who are you? You can’t just -”

“Shhh,” He hushes, looking around him to be sure no one has their eyes on them. “This isn’t a joke, bard, quiet down.”

Jaskier scowls, ready to open his mouth and give this guy a word about speaking to people with respect but then he corrects himself, understanding that now isn’t the time. He needs to shut up this time and listen.

“My name isn’t important, just meet me tomorrow night Julian.”

The man turns around and walks straight out of the tavern.

And Jaskier stands there, confused as fuck.


	2. It's Common Sense Not To Set Flowers On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is tired of getting himself into all sorts of trouble. Seems that today is no different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two my dudes, dudettes, and dudon'ts!
> 
> I'm gonna try and post every fortnight so hopefully, that's obtainable. This one is a bit longer than the last, going to try and reach for an even bigger word count next time.

_Phillip Andreas Pankratz the Third, was a reasonable man._

_He spent years training himself to be poised, to be polite, to be the most respectable version of himself he could be._

_But respect doesn’t make history, as he would later tell his descendant._

_Throughout his childhood, he’d suffered the worst of the worst. The plague ran through Lettenhove as it did everywhere else - quick and fast like a fire catching on to a field of grass. It was horrendous, too many died, the city left in an abysmal state._

_Lettenhove had seen plenty of storms - every kind - but none came close to the aftermath of the plague._

_Phillip, just thirteen years old, had to grow up fast. He’d lost half his family because of the plague, leaving him alone with his younger brother and uncle, to take the title as Viscount. No amount of preparation from his father could’ve prepared him for the work he had to do._

_Cleaning up after a storm is easy to handle, but the everlasting effects of a disease... it was almost impossible._

_Keyword, being impossible, as Phillip grew up in the span of a night and took the city’s lasting population from an absolute wreck to a somewhat thriving community of people. He singled-handedly saved his people._

_But because of it, the Viscount knew grief better than anyone, and he lived thirty years of his life in pain and suffering, praying for the light._

_Which is where a certain Fae came in._

_Phillip, with all his reason, fell deeply in love with a woman of immense beauty. This woman, this Fae stole his heart from the second he laid eyes on her, and from there he found his home - his happiness._

_It was one especially stormy night when Phillip found the world to be too broken and too beautiful for his heart to handle. Life’s bittersweet symphony of tragedy and miracles stunned him as the wind howled, and the rain fell._

_It was the wail of, nothing else, but a baby that woke him that night._

_He ripped back the covers of his bed and ran through his house, lantern in hand, trying to figure out why he could hear a baby’s cry of all things._

_With a muddled brain, he opened the front door, definitely not expecting to find a child - no more than a week old, laying in his bed of buttercups, wrapped in blankets made from leaves._

_Three steps, it took for Phillip to reach the child._

_Three steps, it took for Phillip to see that the child was not just a baby, but his baby - his and his dear love Lilia’s._

_And as that baby with a tuft of chestnut brown hair, and bright blue eyes, sobbed helplessly, Phillip felt his heart both break and beat with a force to be reckoned with. For as he held that child - his child - in his arms, he made a silent vow._

_“No matter what, I’ll do anything and everything to keep you safe, for you are, and forever will be, my one, and only.”_

***

Storms have never sat right with Jaskier.

Ever since he was young, he hated them. The sound of thunder, the downpour of rain, the too-bright display of lightning - it is enough to make his stomach grow sick and cause his hands to shake.

Of course, he wouldn’t admit this to anyone, that he is afraid of storms.

The only two people who ever knew was his father - now dead and gone - and Geralt - gone as well, but still alive.

The unfortunate night when he and Geralt were sleeping under the stars - not uncommon for them - and a storm rolled in heavy and loud, Jaskier had experienced one of his worst panic attacks, shaking and muttering endless curses as Geralt herded Roach, and the bard, into the nearest cave.

He remembers explaining it to the Witcher, rambling on about all the times he’d found himself terrified by just the mere sound of thunder.

And he remembers Geralt telling him, in return, that he was afraid of the ocean.

It’s those little memories that frustrate Jaskier to no end. Because Geralt wasn’t - isn’t - a terrible monster. He’s kind, gentle, caring - you just have to pay attention. But Jaskier doesn’t want to remember how nice Geralt was - wants to hate him instead.

He wants to be mad, wants to list all the reasons Geralt was a shitty friend because hating him is less painful than loving him.

Jaskier is tired of loving Geralt.

“You made it,” The low hum of a baritone voice scrapes through the soft patter of rain, and the quiet lapping of waves on the sand.

Jaskier turns around, facing the shadowy figure of a man - the man from the tavern.

With wary eyes, Jaskier glances from the figure to the water hitting the piers holding up the bridge above them. He doesn’t like storms, and he definitely doesn’t like being under bridges, near the choppy ocean, during a storm.

A strong breeze passes through from the ocean, freezing cold; the saltwater that flicks up with it, is even colder - closer to ice than liquid.

Jaskier shivers and regrets his decision to wear only a doublet instead of a coat, in the middle of a particularly cold winter night, near the ocean. One day he’ll learn from his stupidity but tonight isn’t that moment.

“You meet with all the people you flirt with like this?” Jaskier quips, taking a few steps forward, away from the shoreline.

The man walks forward, into the light, black hair shining under the glimpse of moonlight. He’s standing straight, head high - poised; all seriousness and no joke. Which sits so very right with Jaskier’s growing anxiety... not.

“Look I apologise for the circumstances but it had to be this way. I cannot risk anyone but you hearing this information,” The man says, voice still relatively hushed.

Jaskier furrows his eyebrows and chews on his lip.

He may be a fool at times, but he knows better than to trust random strangers, he’s still ready to run if need be.

“My name is Marcus, I’m a Fae Knight -”

“Oh no no no no, I don’t take messages from the devil’s guards. If Róża wants me, she needs to come and get me,” Jaskier spits out, turning around to walk back the way he came.

No hell way is he getting caught up in the Fae court’s problems again. He’s made that mistake once, and he’s not making it again. Róża the evil witch of a queen can take her useless information and shove it up her -

“I’m not here for Rose,” The man calls out just as Jaskier reaches the ladder that leads back up to the city streets.

The bard stops, and slowly turns around, meeting the man’s gaze.

His heart is thumping.

“Then who are you here for?” Jaskier asks, scowling.

The man - the fae knight, walks over, eyes softer now - less serious.

“You.”

Jaskier scoffs, rolls his eyes, “Me? A fae Knight needs personal help from a half-blood?”

It’s positively hilarious. All those years of avoiding the Fae Court - so he wouldn’t get his head chopped off - all those years of being tormented by their words, they now want _his_ help. Fucking rich.

The fae knight drops his head, runs a hand through his hair.

“Buttercup, you -”

“Do not call me that, to you I’m Julian, that’s it. You don’t get to use that name,” Jaskier almost growls in anger, glaring hard.

The Fae Knight sighs, folding his arms over his chest.

Up close, Jaskier now notices the detailed mark on his neck; a red flower with black seeds and a leafy green stem.

“Poppy?” Jaskier remarks, nodding his head towards the Fae mark on the Knight’s neck.

The Knight nods solemnly, “Yes, human name Mak. I’m not fortunate enough to have two human names though... where is your mark?”

Jaskier scoffs again, “Only people who bed me get to see it.”

For a moment Mak looks taken aback, but then he corrects himself, all business once more.

“Look, Julian, I have one message to give you and that’s it. Take it if you wish, but if not, I’ll never disturb you again,” Mak promises.

Jaskier feels a bit of the anger dissipate.

He sighs, “Fine.”

“Your mother is alive.”

Of all the things Jaskier could’ve expected to hear, it certainly wasn’t _that_.

“What?!”

Mak shushes him again, glancing up at the Oxenfurt streets above.

‘This fucking fae is paranoid, Melitele’s tits,’ Jaskier thinks, turning around to face the ocean. His heart is thundering now in his chest, and his head is spinning like a top - refusing to calm for even a second.

His mother can’t be alive.

She died giving birth to Jaskier. At least that’s what Jaskier’s father told him... she can’t be _alive_. She just can’t. Jaskier spent a lifetime with her dead - it’s impossible.

“You’re lying, there’s no way my mother is alive, she died, when I was born!” Jaskier turns back to shout at Mak’s face.

“Julian I know this is big news but you need to be quiet - if the wrong person found out -”

“Then what?!”

“Then we’d both have a target on our heads, you fool,” Mak growls, prodding Jaskier in the chest.

And boy, doesn’t he get enough of people calling him a fool.

It’s too much, he’s had too much to deal with over the last few months - a now alive mother is too much. What is he even supposed to do with that information? Go find her and say, hey mother it’s me, the child you abandoned?

He’s hyperventilating.

“Julian, are you...”

That’s all Jaskier hears before he passes out cold.

***

_There are hands on his waist, tugging him close back from the ledge of the cliff._

_It’s windy, and he’s standing two feet away from the edge, but someone has their arms around him, preventing him from falling._

_They’re warm, solid, strong._

_Jaskier leans back, breath falling in an even rhythm now. It’s a relief, both the comfort of strong arms and the ease of breathing. It’s the calmest he’s felt in too long._

_“I’m here Jask, you’re safe,” The smooth, low voice of his favourite Witcher is a whisper in his ear._

_He shivers despite the warm breath on his neck._

_“I missed you,” Jaskier almost cries, turning around in his arms to see the witcher, to let golden eyes and white hair ease his aching heart but the second he does... the arms disappear and he’s falling..._

_... down..._

_... down..._

_... down._

***

Jaskier wakes with a start.

His body throws itself forward until a small hand is on his chest, stopping him from moving much more.

In his disoriented state, he grabs the wrist the hand belongs to and shoves it away, ready to reach for his dagger and attack the person too close, too cold for comfort. However, the overwhelming stench of lavender is too hard on his senses, and he gags, ending up in a coughing fit.

“Yes, my dear, that’s why I tried to stop you from moving, you winded yourself when you fainted,” A strong accented, female voice explains.

Jaskier opens his watering eyes, to see an elf, with wild red hair sitting on the edge of the bed he’s in.

In short, Jaskier couldn’t feel more confused.

Rubbing his now throbbing head, he leans back against the headboard, “Who are you, and where am I?”

“I’m Daedre, a healer, and you are in the Coven Of The Lost,” The elf tells it like it’s some extraordinary thing Jaskier is just supposed to understand.

But he doesn’t and trying to hurts his already aching head.

So he squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to calm his erratic heartbeat.

“The coven of the what now?”

The elf gets up from her place on the bed and walks across the room to get a vial of dark green liquid from a dusty old cabinet.

“The Coven Of The Lost, we are all magic users who have been shunned by the humans, outcasted by the mages. We are the downtrodden, and left behind,” She says, pouring the slimy green liquid into a cup. “Mostly made up of Elves, Faes, some Dwarves with special abilities.”

She returns to the bed, “Here, drink.”

Jaskier opens his eyes, and scowls at the disgusting looking liquid, Daedre is offering.

“Oh, don’t look down your nose in disgust like that, it helps with the pain,” She tuts, shoving the cup into his hands.

Jaskier takes it hesitantly, shaking the cup lightly. The green goop bubbles unexpectedly, and Jaskier grimaces.

But the elf healer keeps staring so he downs it in one go and hands the cup back to her, gagging again as the liquid slides hot down his throat.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” She says, returning the cup to a table across the room. “Now hopefully that will help quite nicely, your friend, Poppy, is giving you a tour of the place.”

Jaskier stares blankly.

He doesn’t have a clue who Poppy is or why she would think... _oh_.

It all comes flooding back like a tsunami drenching him - dunking him... his mother is alive, and he now has an irritating Fae Knight on his back.

Life just keeps getting better and better.

“Brilliant,” he says, sarcastically.

Daedre, with her almost glowing green eyes, stares at him. With one hand on her waist, she uses her other to comb her fingers through her untamed curls. It does nothing to ease the chaotic mess, instead, making the curls even wilder.

“You don’t seem eager,” She comments, narrowing her eyes. “Most magical outcasts that arrive here are over the moon to discover the legendary Coven.”

Jaskier scoffs, throwing back the sheets, “Well, I’m not like most magical outcasts, for one they have magic.”

Daedre cocks her head.

“But you are Fae, your mark shows it,” She protests.

Jaskier moves to sit on the edge of the bed, feet laying flat on the cold floor. He swears it’s so freezing, water could turn to ice.

He stretches his back, the pain in his head shifting from a throb to a dull ache he can ignore. He guesses that disgusting gloop is working. With that pain dulled, he can at least think properly without the world spinning.

Daedre’s words catch up to him, and he freezes like the winter chill.

“My mark?” He asks, lips tugging into a scowl.

The elf blushes.

“You take the pants off of everyone who comes in here?!” Jaskier exclaims, throwing his arms out in an, admittingly, dramatic gesture.

Daedre continues to turn red, shifting her eyes to the floor, “I do apologise Sir Julian, but your clothes were indeed wet and covered in sand. I had to wash them.”

For the first time since he woke up, Jaskier looks down at what he’s wearing. It’s _not_ his clothes. Instead, he’s wearing a white shirt too snug around his arms, and bright green trousers made of some old silk. It’s not a terrible fit, but it’s not what he would’ve chosen.

“Melitele’s Tits... would love if someone could explain to me why life has suddenly become an endless stream of nonsense.”

With a frustrated huff, he buries his face in his hands, trying to just _will_ the world - time to stop moving for a _second_.

“I’ll go get Poppy,” Daedre says hurriedly, feet moving just as fast as her words.

Jaskier has been pacing the healer’s room for what must be an hour before the heavy wooden door creaks open, Mak stepping inside.

He’s not dressed in black anymore, instead, in a greenish-gold tunic and tattered hyde boots.

Fashion sense, it seems, is not high on the Coven’s priority list.

Jaskier, with a tick in his erratic heartbeat, stops his pacing, to stare - no, glare - at the Fae Knight, with a ferocity that can not be challenged, not even by the brooding legend - Geralt, himself.

“Kidnapping Bard’s is an interesting hobby,” Jaskier snaps.

Mak, or _Poppy_ , walks across the room and takes a seat on the bed, clasping his hands together, straightening out his tunic. The Knight has his shoulders held tight, his back straight - there is no falter in his poised portrayal.

He clears his throat, “I brought you to a safe space. I did not kidnap you... in fact, you are free to leave if you wish.”

Jaskier fixes a fake smile, “Splendid, I’ll be on my way once you return my clothes. That doublet was quite expensive might I add.”

Mak nods, eyes glancing around the room, stopping at the painting hanging on the wall.

“I’ll see to it,” he pauses. “But I insist you let me show you around, there are others here. Others who have experienced the same hate as you by the Queen Róża. I could show you the world I’ve built, the community that thrives here.”

Jaskier’s scowl shifts to wary confusion.

“Fae’s like us -”

“No one is Fae like me,” The bard interrupts. “I’m not like any of you. I’m an abomination, a half-blood. I don’t even have magic.”

Mak stands, steps over to Jaskier, and peers at him.

“You have magic, you just don’t know how to use it, access it... we can show you.”

“That easy?”

“You’ll see.”

Mak turns around and heads over to the door, stopping when he gets there to turn back around and give Jaskier another peering stare, “But if you are sure about leaving that’s fine too.”

The knight opens the door, and Jaskier’s heart skips a beat in a panicked state.

‘This is your chance to see if you are truly broken or not, take it,’ he thinks. The bard isn’t sure if it’s the right decision but his mouth opens just as Mak is walking out.

“Wait,” The Knight stops. “Show me.”

***

_Geralt huffs out a frustrated grunt._

_“That’s not how you swing a sword, bard, if you do it like that, you’ll fall flat on your face.”_

_Jaskier lifts his head and rolls his eyes at the Witcher._

_“Then show me how, you big oaf,” Jaskier teases, swinging the sword in his direction._

_Geralt grimaces at the incorrect use, and marches over, grabbing the silver sword from the Bard’s hands. In a way too graceful display, the witcher swings the sword in front of him, arms in a completely different state to Jaskier._

_Which of course, makes the bard scrunch up his nose and scowl at both the sword and the Witcher holding it._

_Geralt hands it back and Jaskier tries, his hardest, to copy the White Wolf’s movements, but he still stumbles forward, sword slipping from his grasp._

_When he finds his footing, but not his pride, he lifts his eyes to his Witcher friend, noticing the smallest of amused smiles on Geralt’s face... and Jaskier’s heart thuds._

_“Here,” Geralt picks up the sword and places it in Jaskier’s right hand._

_Then he moves to stand behind the bard, hands coming to hold over Jaskier’s own, forming the right hold on the sword’s hilt._

_Jaskier’s breath escapes his lungs, and his throat goes dry._

_‘Fucking oblivious Witcher,’ he thinks._

_Geralt continues, moving his arms in a swinging motion, unlike Jaskier’s previous attempt._

_Meanwhile, Jaskier is dying inside; his cheeks flush red, his heart thumps in his throat, and his mind goes foggy. With the Witcher so close, too close, Jaskier can smell Vanilla on him - mixed with sweat and smoke, and he wants to drown in that smell._

_He hates his foolish heart._

***

From what Jaskier can tell, they’re underground.

Mak takes Jaskier down through several tunnels that each seems to branch off to more tunnels, more rooms. Apparently, there is an order to it all but Jaskier imagines it would take him less than a few minutes in this place to get utterly lost.

They’re walking idly through a particularly long corridor when Jaskier starts to hear the rambunctious commotion coming from nearby.

“What’s that?” He asks, peering around at the rocky walls scattered with scratches and dark stains he’d rather not ponder on.

Mak gestures to the end of the tunnel, where metal double doors await.

“That is our common room, I have a few faces I’d like you to meet,” Mak explains.

Jaskier nods, wondering just how many people - or creatures are home to this ‘Coven of the Lost.’ Since they’ve been wondering these tunnels, they’ve only passed two living things; an elf with a giant burn scar on his face, and a rat.

The rat was kinder.

“This... Coven... why have I never heard of it before? I’ve never even heard a mention or whisper?” Jaskier buttons up his doublet (yes _his,_ the elf healer returned it smelling weirdly of pine).

Mak clears his throat, “It’s an oath we make every newcomer take, to keep this place - this community - a secret. If anyone...”

The Knight stops walking, and Jaskier follows suit, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

“We are called the Coven of the Lost for a reason. The folks here, some have all sorts of incredible abilities, some don’t and are simply outcasted by regular society. We take people in, give them a home, a life, a purpose,” Mak sighs. “If the ones that outcasted them, the ones that hunted them, find this place, well... let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”

There is real worry - fear in Mak’s eyes. The grief pulls at his skin, tugs lines into his forehead.

“You mean Nilfgaard?” Jaskier questions.

Mak scoffs, “Nilfgaard is the least of our worries, no, while Nilfgaard is a threat to the current existence of human lives, they are not a threat to us... our threats lie with the humans, but mostly the Mages... the Witchers.”

Jaskier’s breath gets caught in his lungs.

“Witchers are a threat? I would’ve thought they would protect -”

“Protect?!” Mak shouts, mood flipping.

Jaskier takes a step back in shock, eyes wide, heart stuttering as the Fae Knight’s eyes turn orange. The bard isn’t unaware of the Fae’s ability for their eye colour to change. He remembers the Queen, Róża’s eyes turning blood red when he stepped foot in her court.

A few short moments and Mak seems to collect himself, taking deep breaths and shifting his eye colour back to a dull green.

“I apologise... this topic angers me greatly,” Mak stares away, at the wall. “It was the Witchers who left us to fend for ourselves when Queen Róża abandoned all reason and started ordering for us all to be slaves to her dictatorship. It was the Witchers who slaughtered fifteen of my friends - all in the name of ‘ridding the world of evil’.”

Jaskier clenches his jaw, heart sinking.

“Did they have a reason?”

Mak glares right at him, “Would you call us stealing a bit of food to survive reason enough for slaughtering kids?”

Jaskier’s heart erupts into a frenzy of erratic thumps, and his thoughts descend into a downward spiral.

Surely not right? He’s met Geralt’s brothers, he knows... except he doesn’t. Not anymore. He’s not sure he ever did. Geralt kept so much about himself hidden from Jaskier, maybe he was - is - secretly capable of killing the innocent.

Its a harsh thought but Jaskier doesn’t know what’s true... everything he once knew has blurred out of focus.

“No.”

“Exactly,” Mak nods. “Now, let me introduce you to my comrades.”

With a gesture of his right hand, Mak continues down the tunnel. Jaskier takes a deep breath and follows, trying to sort his brain into some form of organisation but the mess is too much of a tangled web... it just gets more knotted with every tug.

Mak opens the doors to the common room, and Jaskier audibly gasps.

The high ceiling is littered with chandeliers of all types - clearly stolen or snatched from unuse elsewhere, over fifty tables is lining the floor - all accompanied by creatures Jaskier has both seen and not seen before on his travels.

There is a bar at one end, serving tankards of ale, and a fireplace at the other, offering warmth to young children with horns growing from their heads or ears pointed up.

Its a sight Jaskier has never seen before; so many nonhuman species all under the same roof, happy as can be.

There must be at least a hundred - maybe even two hundred - elves, half-elves, faes, half-sirens, half-succubi, doppler’s, godlings... it’s incredible.

“This way,” Mak says, walking towards one of the many tables.

Jaskier quickly follows, noticing the many odd looks he gets from several pairs of beady eyes. In a place for the lost - the outcasted - Jaskier should feel right at home, but even here he can’t help feel like he sticks out like a sore thumb.

Mak waves him over to a table and sits down next to a short man with a wiry grey beard, and completely white eyes.

Jaskier takes a seat for himself, hesitantly of course, as there are still several heads turned towards him.

“Jas... sorry, Julian, this is Calatheal, hes my right-hand man, well, right-hand prophet,” Mak introduces.

The man - Calatheal - extends a boney hand to Jaskier, with a warm smile in greeting.

Jaskier diverts his attention from the many - now scowling - faces watching him carefully, to the old man in front of him.

His stomach feels sick.

“Hi,” He greets anyway, shaking Calatheal’s hand.

Calatheal, even after a few solid seconds of shaking, doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand, instead turns it, palm up, and inspects it even though he’s blind.

Jaskier doesn’t like the growing sick feeling in his stomach - the urgency to run, “Uh-”

“I may be blind in the eyes Mr Pankratz but that does not mean I am entirely short of vision,” Calatheal says, voice a low gravel of sound.

Jaskier pulls his hand back, shoving it in his lap away from the creepy old man’s reach. He’s about to ask Mak to show him to the nearest exit when his mind halts on something.

“Wait, how do you know my last name... did Mak tell you about me?” Jaskier furrows his brow.

Calatheal grins, shaking his head. Mak grins too like he’s in on this odd joke.

“No, I told you, I can see more than what the eyes offer... I know more than just your last name, I know all your names. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Jaskier, Viscount of Lettenhove, Buttercup, The Bard, The Songbird, The Lark of the White Wolf.”

Jaskier stares in utter shock, not quite sure how to react.

“I have been waiting for your presence for some time Buttercup, you are a special - rare occurrence.”

Even with no pupils, no irises, Jaskier feels like his soul is being peered into.

“I’m a rare occurrence?” He sputters out, finding his words.

Calatheal nods again, his ringed fingers coming up to stroke his beard.

“Yes, quite so... not only does your blood run a substance never existed before on this earth, but your soul is quite special too, it’s brighter than all, blinding to the mortal eye,” Calatheal pauses. “You have a destiny quite rocky but shining. You could be our saviour.”

Jaskier, if he hadn’t been through so much nonsense already would’ve laughed in his face, but with the weight heavy in his heart and bones, he simply stands and leaves the room, from the double metal doors they came through.

He’s endured pain no Knight or Prophet can understand, he doesn’t need to sit and listen to the bullshit that is his destiny. Geralt was right, Destiny can go fuck itself.

“Julian!” Mak calls from behind him but Jaskier keeps walking.

He doesn’t know where he’s going but maybe _destiny_ can help him find the fucking exit.

He gets halfway down the tunnel when Mak’s hand encloses around his forearm, stopping him. He turns around with a harsh glare.

“Bring me here just to listen to the fanatics of some old man? Tell me, do you really care about whether or not I belong, or did you only drag me here because I’m a part of some insane prophecy where I what? Pull you out of your pit of doom?”

Mak sighs, ready to defend his actions but Jaskier is too quick.

“Surely for all you’ve been through, you’d understand how fucking annoying it is for people to continuously keep _using_ you.”

Jaskier rips his arm from Mak’s grip and storms off, heart thumping.

He doesn’t get far when a blasting ruckus of what sounds like thunder, followed by a ring of a bell echoes through the many, many tunnels.

His feet come to a halt, and he looks around him, heart thumping in his chest.

“Dammit,” Mak curses from where he’s stood, several feet behind the bard. “Dammit, fuck, dammit.”

Jaskier watches as the Knight hurries forward, grabbing him by the arm again and pulling him along, face scrunched up in fear.

But Jaskier refuses to be manhandled without an explanation so he tugs his arm away again, and stands his ground, “What’s going on?”

Mak huffs and runs a hand through his hair, resting his other hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You know how I said let’s pray those certain people don’t find us?” Mak asks, eyes turning a darker green. “Well, they found us.”

All it takes is another ring of some bell, and people are rushing every different direction.

Suddenly the tunnels are filled with armoured folk, hurrying every direction with weapons at the ready, and Mak is at the centre of it all, firing orders and commands at every passing soul.

Meanwhile, Jaskier stands next to Mak, heart in a panicked state.

“Send three teams up to the high ground, the towers will offer better aim for the archers,” Mak orders a flaming pink-haired woman - succubi - he recognises her as.

Finally, Mak turns back to Jaskier, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Can you handle a sword?”

Jaskier shrugs, “I guess, why? Do you really think whoever is out there will make it inside? You’ve got hundreds of magical folk out there -”

“Never underestimate the power of your enemies Julian, now take my sword,” Mak pulls his sword out of its hilt and shoves it into Jaskier’s hand. “And head down that tunnel, follow that one and it will lead you to the back exit, get out of here, and get out alive you hear me?”

Mak’s eyes hold no room for argument - they are stern.

But Jaskier is stubborn at the worst of times, and his brain is running a million miles in an attempt to catch up.

“You want me to leave now, I thought you were trying to get me to -”

“Yes well, the plan has changed, if I’m still alive - if we are both still alive, you meet me in back under that bridge in two days, midnight like yesterday,” Mak continues to order.

“But -”

“No buts, just go,” Mak pushes Jaskier back, towards the tunnel he suggested.

Jaskier realises that there is no arguing it, and turns and runs down the tunnel, making his way through the sea of moving bodies, all heading in the opposite direction.

His heart is thundering. His hands are growing sweaty, and he has to keep swapping the sword to the other hand to wipe the clammy one.

It’s _so_ very glorious.

Another thunderous boom shakes the walls, and Jaskier hears a few distant screams.

He moves faster, making his way to the exit.

Only, when he gets to the end of the tunnel, there is just a door to another tunnel.

“Fucking typical,” he mumbles, gripping the sword tight in his right hand, and hurrying down the next tunnel, which is empty.

The harrowing sound of his footsteps accompanied by the distant echo of screams and booms makes his heart thump even harder.

‘How the fuck do I end up in these situations?’ he thinks.

As he gets further and further down the tunnel, the candles on the walls get scarcer, meaning it gets darker, leaving Jaskier to squint to make out the shadows ahead.

He swears he can make out a door when something moves in the darkness.

Jaskier stops, dead in his tracks, staring ahead with only the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He grips the sword tighter, praying to the gods that it’s just his eyes playing tricks on him. Or maybe it’s just a rat, or a wild dog or something moving in the darkness.

Apparently, he didn’t pray hard enough because what steps out of the blackness is not a rat, but a tall, brute of a man with a claw mark scar running down the middle of his face. He’s wearing blood-stained armour and is holding a huge sword - a silver sword.

Jaskier’s mouth goes dry with fear.

He could barely make it out of swordfights when he practised with Priscilla so this... he’s gonna fucking die.

“Aww, you almost made it out, too bad you’ll die like the rest of your disgusting brothers and sisters,” the brute of a man says, voice the lowest Jaskier’s heard.

Jaskier is already losing his breath and he hasn’t even started fighting.

“They aren’t my brothers and sisters,” he remarks, weakly.

“You still stink of them, of mutant blood, so you die like the rest of them.”

The brute charges forward, sword parrying forward at Jaskier’s face. He has a mere second to swing his own sword up in front of his face in defence.

It catches the man by surprise, and Jaskier uses that lapse to his advantage and shoves his own sword in a downward motion, effectively pushing the brute’s sword away, almost out of his grasp.

But he quickly gets his grip on it, pulling it up to swing it at Jaskier’s head again.

Jaskier dodges, stumbling into the wall, and narrowly missing getting his head sliced off.

The brute doesn’t take a single break, already moving to stab the sword into Jaskier back. So Jaskier turns around as fast as he can, and kicks his knee up, right as the brute steps forward. Jaskier’s knee collides with the man’s crotch.

The brute growls out in pain, dropping his sword, but instead of Jaskier gaining the upper hand, the brute becomes furious, swiftly throwing a punch to Jaskier’s jaw.

Jaskier stumbles again, this time to the ground, with a throbbing pain rushing through his jaw, his mouth, his teeth.

His own sword slips from his grip, skidding across the cold ground, out of reach.

Jaskier tries to get up but a hard boot collides with his stomach and he falls flat to the ground, winded.

As he's coughing, up blood and breath, the brute kicks him over onto his back and stands over him.

Jaskier peers up at him through spotting vision, trying to find some strength left in him. If he could just get up, grab his sword.

“I was gonna slice your head clean off, give you a quick death, but I think I’ll enjoy this more,” The brute growls out, kneeling over Jaskier, hands coming to grip his neck.

Jaskier’s hand reflexes, coming up to grasp at the weight around his breathing pipe.

The air disappears quickly, and Jaskier squirms, fighting hard to remove the hands closed around his neck.

But without oxygen, he can’t find strength, and without strength, his hands fall weak and his vision blurs out.

He tries to scream, but he can’t.

All he can hear is his stupid heartbeat. And the sound of the brute’s wicked laugh, as he strangles the poor life from a too weak bard.

‘Fuck I’m gonna die in a stinky, wet tunnel,’ Jaskier thinks, pathetically.

He tries one more time to pull at the hands but it’s no use, his fate seems sealed. ‘Destiny is to be our saviour, my ass.’

“Coen, what are you doing?” Some voice, some other low voice calls out from somewhere.

Jaskier can’t tell where, cause it all sounds like it’s underwater, blurred along with his eyesight.

With an abrupt jolt of movement, the hands on his neck cease, and the weight is off him.

He erupts into a fit of coughs, turning on his side, desperately trying to win back his breath. It takes a few deep breaths to finally feel somewhat better.

With his sleeve, he wipes the blood from his chin and pushes himself up. He wobbles on his feet so he leans against the wall, trying to force his eyes to see, and his brain to comprehend why he’s alive.

“Coen, I told you, we aren’t here to kill innocent lives, you...” the muffled, low voice grumbles somewhere... close, maybe? Jaskier can’t tell.

He’s too busy trying to get his lungs to fall back into an easy rhythm.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier knows that voice, knows that tone... he’s heard his name be said like that before.

With extreme effort, he lifts his head and leans it against the wall. He wills his vision to focus on the burred shapes of a person, a few feet ahead of him.

He can smell vanilla, smoke, sweat.

His vision comes back, slightly spotted but no longer blurred.

And Jaskier’s heart skips a few thousand beats when he realises it’s none other than Geralt himself standing there, golden eyes and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> Again criticism is much obliged, there is always room for improvement.


	3. Flowers Are Stunning, But Beware, Their Vines Are Sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Geralt, suddenly, back in his life, Jaskier has to find a way to trust the White Wolf again.

Summers in Lettenhove were bright.

Ever since the stormy night of June 5th, 1229, Lettenhove’s usual terrible weather changed for the better. The days were longer; the nights were shorter, and all the while, the sun beamed at noon, and the moon shone at midnight.

Cloudy skies became few and far between, and storms - when they occasionally arrived - passed through within a matter of hours, sometimes minutes.

Winters were graced with fluffy, white snow instead of blizzards, Autumns were filled with golden landscapes instead of lightning storms, Springs were masterpieces of newborn cows and blossoming flowers instead of tornadoes, and Summers…

Summers in Lettenhove became endless days filled with warm sun and gleaming water. The brilliant weather turned frowns upside down and drove the citizens from their homes to the beaches and waterholes.

No face was left dull in Lettenhove’s summers from then on.

Except maybe the Pankratz’s.

***

_Phillip’s packed schedule of meetings, speeches and more made it difficult to attend to his son’s apparent_ **_need_ ** _to go to the beach that very hour._

_The Viscount, of course, tried to send Julian’s nanny, Natalie, to take him to the beach but instead, his son sat on the floor, pouting for an entire hour._

_Not exactly the reaction Phillip was hoping for._

_So with three members of the Law Office in the Viscount’s own Office, trying to explain a new bill that must be passed before the coming Fall, Phillip had to let Julian sit in on the meeting. Of course, he made his son promise to be quiet or no beach, but even promises couldn’t stop Julian Alfred Pankratz’s chatterbox mouth._

_Half an hour into the meeting, Phillip could notice his son becoming restless, just sitting in the corner and reading some book about frogs._

_The Viscount didn’t expect much discipline from his son; he was only a week out from turning seven years old. But he hoped that he’d understand the importance of the meeting and try to remain silent._

_“I think if we split the funds in half, we can have this program up and running by October, but without -”_

_“Dad, you must hear this, this frog, its called a Marsh Frog, it’s the largest frog on The Continent, and it can be as big as 17cm, how cool is that Dad?” Julian exclaims, interrupting the head of the Law Office._

_“Yes, that’s very cool Julian, just -”_

_“And it’s home to the Green Frog species complex, which also comprises the_ **_Edible_ ** _frog, and the Pool Frog. What a silly name Dad, Edible frog, do you think it got that name because animals or humans kept eating it?” Julian continues, walking over to the Viscount’s desk with the book still in hand._

_“I don’t know, how about you go sit back down and find out if -”_

_“Like all other green frogs, it has a bright green stripe going down it’s back. I want to see one, maybe instead of the beach, we go to a Marsh and try to find one? Oh, wait have you heard about poisonous toads Dad? They can live in Marshes too and they’re very danger - Is that why Edible frogs are edible? Cause they aren’t poisonous. Maybe so, could we go to the Marsh anyway, see if we can find a frog - or a salamander, they are -”_

_“Shut up, you brat! Can’t you see we are in a meeting here?! Did you fall on your head when you were born? No one ever tells you that no one cares what comes out of that annoying little trap of yours!” The head of the Law office bursts out with anger, rising from his seat._

_Phillip stares in shock for a good few seconds before pointing to the door._

_“Out, now,” He glares, hard, at his acquaintance._

_The head of the law office, stares, baffled, that_ **_he’s_ ** _the one being thrown out, but it takes less than a few moments of harsh glaring before he finally moves to leave, partners following, “You’ve made a huge mistake Viscount.”_

_With a slump of his shoulders, Phillip turns to look at his son, who is standing, teary-eyed, staring down at the floor._

_“Hey,” Phillip says, softly, walking over to his son and kneeling in front of him. “Hey still want to go to the beach?”_

_Just like that, Julian’s face lights up._

***

“Melitele’s tits Geralt!”

Jaskier has had just about enough of being manhandled.

It took less than a minute after Jaskier realised who was exactly standing there before Geralt had his vice-like grip around Jaskier’s bicep and was hurling him out the back exit.

Which is where Jaskier is now, standing in the drizzling rain, in the middle of the night, near a stinky tunnel entrance, brushing dirt off his trousers. Couldn’t Geralt at least have the decency to shove Jaskier _away_ from the muddy patch?

“What the fuck Jaskier?” Geralt growls, his shining silver sword still in hand.

Jaskier doesn’t pay the grumbling Witcher any attention, instead, focusing entirely on the rip on the front of his doublet. He paid a lot for the ensemble; he has every right to fixate on the wear and tears.

“You can be a damn fool sometimes Bard, chilling out in a Sorcerer’s Den?” Geralt continues to grunt and grumble, staring daggers at Jaskier’s back.

There are so many, too many emotions running through Jaskier… it’s why he’s choosing to concentrate on his doublet and not those _too fucking bright_ golden eyes. If his mind centers on gold eyes, and white hair and all those butterflies flitting around in his stomach… then he’s doomed.

“Dammit, the best designer in Novigrad made this doublet! Now its ruined, you happy Witcher?!” Jaskier shouts, still refusing to turn around and actually look at Geralt.

The lace ripped clean off the cuffs of his doublet need way more attention than broody Mr. Broodington.

He hears a gruff behind him, and then the sound of boots on the muddy ground.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s hand is back on his bicep, spinning him around to look at the White Wolf, really look at him, for the first time since inside.

Jaskier’s throat goes dry, and his head goes blank.

Geralt hasn’t changed, not really.

The stubble on his chin is clearer, there’s a fresh scar on his neck (Drowner), he’s wearing new armor; similar to his old, black leather ones.

But his hair… he cut his hair. Instead of reaching his collarbone at least, it’s hanging just below his jaw.

Jaskier hates it. All of it.

Mainly because he knows deep down how much he doesn’t hate it, how much his heart is racing and his hands are shaking, how much his stomach is fluttering and his cheeks are heating up - because _dammit_ Geralt has still got a strong hold on his poor aching heart.

Those golden eyes are still too bright.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Jaskier should be used to that tone, he heard it all the time on their travels. There is no reason it should still sting… but it does, even worse this time.

A part of Jaskier was hoping when he did - if he did - see Geralt again, that Geralt would be happy to see Jaskier, that the Witcher would hug him or _something._

But it’s the same old angry Geralt.

The thought lights a fire in Jaskier’s head, and he rips his arm free from the Witcher’s grasp, scowling his best scowl, “None of your fucking business Witcher.”

With a conflicting concoction of feelings sloshing around his stomach, Jaskier turns and starts walking.

There is a path ahead of him, running straight through the surrounding woods. If Jaskier is right, then they are just a few minutes walk from Oxenfurt. He recognizes the exterior of the tunnels, he should only be half an hour tops, away.

Despite his heart aching, he forces himself to keep walking.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

Jaskier walked away once, he can do it again. He can leave Geralt and his trunk full of past issues and brooding behaviour behind. He doesn’t need Geralt to survive - the past winter proved that.

“Jaskier, where are you going?”

Jaskier glances back with a glare but doesn’t stop walking.

Geralt is following him now, placing his sword in its hilt with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I think the more important question, is where are _you_ going? Don’t you have innocent people to kill?” Jaskier jabs, folding his arms over his chest as the woods get darker, and the wind passes through his ripped doublet.

The combination of icy droplets of rain with the chill wind isn’t exceptional.

“I’m trying to understand - wait - innocent people?” Geralt asks, incredulously, stopping in his tracks behind Jaskier. “Those people aren’t innocent, they’re thieves, they’ve killed hundreds of innocent human children, all for their revenge fantasy.”

Jaskier stops, heart thudding, cheeks burning.

He seriously hates his heart and his brain.

With a hard swallow, he turns and meets Geralt’s golden eyes. His heart skips a beat again.

“They said -”

“Whatever they said to you was a lie.”

Jaskier wants Geralt to be wrong - he doesn’t need Geralt to be all high and mighty, Mr. I’m-right-all-the-time… but when has the Witcher ever been wrong about this stuff. While Jaskier has seen his fair share of beasts, monsters, and the other strange things, on his time travelling with Geralt; Geralt has seen more, knows more than Jaskier does or ever will.

The sick knot in his stomach wants Jaskier to run, from all of this. A large part of him doesn’t want to deal with any of it.

But that tiny voice in his brain is begging for him to listen, _‘Give him a second chance, maybe he can help.’_

Geralt’s stern gaze - shutting out all emotion and glimpse of thought process, makes Jaskier, even more, uneasy - even more, unsure of what to do.

“You going to tell me how you ended up in there?” Geralt asks, although it borderlines on being a demand with how gruff it comes out. Jaskier wants to run over to that hulking Witcher and shake some god damned sense into him, _‘It’s okay to feel you fucking idiot.’_

But Jaskier has already tried… he spent twenty whole years trying to break down the White Wolf’s walls.

“Do you want me to stay or to be taken off your hands Geralt? Make up your mind.”

_Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shoveling it?_

It’s still not fair.

Jaskier watches as Geralt’s face falls, and his heart aches miserably. So he turns around, facing the dark forest and the path ahead of him instead of the White Wolf. He doesn’t want to watch Geralt _feel_ , not now - why can’t he just hate him?

***

_Jaskier isn’t even halfway down the mountain when he runs into Yennefer._

_She’s standing between a tree stump and a boulder, cursing under her breath when she kicks a rock and it, well, hurts._

_Jaskier’s moral compass says to feel sorry for her, but the broken heart shattered in pieces on the ground wants to laugh at her misfortune and move on._

_He tries, to move on, that is. But he steps on a twig and she notices he’s there._

_“Oh just my luck, I run into the bard of all people, and where’s the songbird, there is the…” She trails off, looking up the mountain, at the path Jaskier just came down, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Where’s… your White Wolf?”_

_Jaskier laughs bitterly, wiping the tears hanging to his chin away._

_“Fallen off this mountain, hopefully,” he remarks._

_Yennefer stares, in disbelief for a few moments, before shaking her head._

_“He’s good at throwing people who love him, away, isn’t he?” She says, sighing dramatically._

_Jaskier looks up in shock._

_She just must be that good at reading people._

_With another sigh, she walks over and gives him a soft look he didn’t think the witch was capable of giving, “Want a fast trip down this mountain?”_

_Jaskier raises his eyebrows._

_With a simple wave of her hand, just like that, a portal appears before them; circling blue magic swirls into purple chaos, air gushing out of it like a mini-tornado._

_Jaskier smiles in amazement._

***

“Jas…”

That’s it, nothing follows.

Jaskier isn’t sure what the Witcher wants or wanted to say, he just knows that whatever it was, it was out of his capabilities.

So Jaskier continues down the path, this time, telling himself over and over in his head that he will not stop or turn back for the White Wolf. This time, he’s walking away for good.

Except he only gets a few steps before he comes to a diverge in the path and doesn’t know which way is back to Oxenfurt.

One path seems to head further into the woods, it’s a muddy track leading off into the trees where the shadows move along the ground, causing Jaskier’s legs to shake. The other path heads off west, towards the marshes where he knows there is a crap ton of Drowners.

Neither path suits his liking.

“Need help?” Geralt asks, coming up to stand next to Jaskier, body heat radiating like a damn fire.

Jaskier folds his arms tighter over his chest and scowls at the diverging paths.

“No, I’m good,” he replies, harshly.

Geralt sighs.

“Jas, just let me help you get… to wherever you’re going, it’s the least I can do.”

Jaskier chews the inside of his mouth, staring at the forest ahead. Something makes a screeching noise in the distance and he jolts, body subconsciously moving towards Geralt.

His heart stammers.

“Fine,” he breathes out, taking a step back away from the Witcher, even though he wants to move closer. “I’m going home.”

“Which is where?” Geralt asks.

“Oxenfurt,” Jaskier answers, choosing to look at anything but Geralt.

His weak heart can’t take it right now.

“I left Roach in a stable there, that works, it’s this way,” The Witcher explains, heading off down the path that goes straight through the woods.

Jaskier tries to control his thudding heart as he follows, hesitantly.

They mostly walked in silence.

Besides, from the occasional attempt from Geralt to get Jaskier to explain what he was doing in the tunnels.

Jaskier avoids every comment with a teasing remark, using his quick wit to save his poor ass from being murdered by a Witcher in the middle of some wet, cold, very dark and spooky forest. No one would find his body. He would just be left there for the beasts to feast on. At least he’s got that going for him, he’s a nice little tasty snack for the monsters out there.

When they cross Oxenfurt bridge, Jaskier expects Geralt to stop and tell him _‘this is where we part ways bard’,_ but he doesn’t.

Instead, they walk down Main Street.

Jaskier secretly loves Oxenfurt at night. It’s a busy, frankly rude city in the day, but at night… it’s rather beautiful. With the moon shining brightly overhead, the soft sound of music slipping through open windows, and the warm glow of fireplaces still on… it’s one of those breathtaking beauties you never expect.

Besides from the muttering of a few lutes, the only other sound is Geralt and Jaskier’s breath, and their shoes clicking on the ground.

Jaskier wishes the circumstances were different.

Years ago, if they were walking through Oxenfurt in the middle of the night, he would’ve broken out some flirtations here and there to lure Geralt in, to try to create a wondrous outcome for the rest of the moonlit hours… but now, Jaskier is tired, and he’s useless on what to say to Geralt.

For the first time, he’s lacking the words.

“Roach is just in the stables, over there,” Geralt stops walking, nodding his head toward Oxenfurt’s stables. “I need to check on her and then I’ll walk you home.”

Geralt is already heading off for the stables before Jaskier can say anything, so he follows, nervous energy thrumming through his veins.

“You don’t have to walk me home Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice comes out softer than he means it to, weaker than he intended… and he hates himself for it.

Geralt looks down for a moment, eyes shifting away.

Jaskier feels his heart shake.

“I know… I want to.”

Jaskier’s poor heart pathetically falls hard, again, just because of a few simple words that shouldn’t mean anything but mean everything.

The White Wolf simply continues walking, oblivious to what he just did to Jaskier’s weak and wanting heart. Geralt has always been oblivious though. Even when Jaskier was attached to his side - a nineteen-year-old hopelessly in love, spitting out every blunt flirtation he could think of - Geralt still didn’t notice… always told Jaskier that _‘you’re blind drunk bard. Bed, now’_.

Jaskier has come a long way since being that naïve, young, teenager… and still, he can’t get Geralt to give back his heart.

A short whinny from the stables makes Jaskier’s heart lift.

He may not get a greeting hug from the prickly Witcher, but Roach… oh how he’s missed her. Too many days have been spent thinking about that adorable sweetheart.

With a glow returning to his heart, he runs straight into the stable and towards the second last stall where Roach is neighing loudly, and kicking her hooves against the hay, in a display of joy. It’s a beautiful sight, one that is welcomed after all the pain.

Jaskier opens the stall door, and rushes over to Roach, hugging her tightly, heart warm.

She lets out a heavy snort through her nose, breath blowing Jaskier’s hair.

“I missed you too dear heart,” he giggles, taking a step back and running his fingers through her mane.

She moves her head, snuffling his neck with her snout.

Jaskier smiles in return, scratching her behind the ear, “Yeah its been a while hasn’t it?”

His bright smile quickly turns sad, so he rests his forehead on Roach’s, breathing in her smell of hay and fresh grass.

“She missed you, kept whining when I wouldn’t give her more sugar cubes.”

Jaskier glances behind him, at Geralt now standing in the stall, leaning against the wall. A strand of snow-white hair is hanging over his face, and he almost looks… melancholy. At least, as much as Geralt can show, that emotion.

It hangs on to Jaskier’s heart, wraps around it like a snake trying to squeeze the air out of him.

It almost does.

“Yeah well, to most, I am very missable,” Jaskier quips, burying his face in Roach’s mane.

There’s an awkward silence, for a few long seconds, before Geralt clears his throat.

“I missed you.”

It’s quiet, so very quiet, and if the stables were busy, Jaskier wouldn’t have heard it. But he does, and it makes his heart race in his ears and his cheeks flush.

“Roach seems fine, I’ll walk you home,” Geralt announces, walking out of the stall like he didn’t just spark something painful but bright in Jaskier’s heart. As if he didn’t flip Jaskier’s previously, oh so dark world, over into the light of golden eyes.

Jaskier is doomed.

***

_Screaming. All he can hear is screaming._

_There is blood covering his hands, his chest, his feet - it’s in his mouth, his hair, his eyes, his ears. It’s everywhere, hot and sticky, seeping into his clothes and slipping through his eyelashes. The world is red and gloomy and he can’t breathe._

_“Help… someone help…”_

_He claws at the ground, searching for something to cling onto. All there is, is more blood - too warm, flowing through his fingers._

_“Help!” He screams this time, voice breaking into reckless sobs._

_It’s all too hot, too sticky, too dark._

_He screams again, thrashing around in the blood as some voice laughs, devilishly, taunting him - ignoring his pain._

_He tries to move._

_He can’t._

_“Jaskier.”_

_He screams again._

_“Jas, it’s okay.”_

_Someone is calling his name, but he doesn’t care._

_There is blood on his tongue. It’s all he can taste. It’s metallic, and it makes his stomach swirl._

_“Jas, wake up.”_

_Something shakes him, and he throws his body forward, screaming in fear - in agony, tears streaming down his face._

_Suddenly the blood is gone, the world is cold, and the only heat is the arms wrapped around him, bringing him tight against someone’s chest. It doesn’t stink of blood anymore, instead, all he can smell is smoky firewood, rain, and vanilla._

_“Shh, it’s okay, you’re safe,” Geralt’s soft, baritone voice hums._

_Jaskier’s heart is still thumping, painfully, against his ribcage and the tears are still flowing, but the warmth of his Witcher - the sound of his voice, eases some of the panic._

_“I couldn’t - I couldn’t breathe Geralt, there was blood - it was everywhere Geralt - I couldn’t see, it was in my mouth, I -”_

_“Hey, shh, I got you, you’re okay now, was just a dream.”_

_Jaskier buries his head further into the crook of Geralt’s neck, sobbing in relief._

***

There were a few things they didn’t talk about.

One of them was the nightmares, or specifically, the aftermath of the nightmares when Geralt would hold Jaskier’s shaking, sobbing form until either he stopped crying, or the sun came up - whichever was first.

Sometimes the nightmares got so bad, Jaskier would scream himself awake. Those nights, Geralt seemed to hold on to Jaskier longer - held him tighter.

The Witcher hated hugs, hated any form of affection if it didn’t come from his horse, so Jaskier was pretty shocked whenever he woke to the White Wolf’s muscular arms holding him tight. But Geralt didn’t seem to mind.

However, they never talked about it.

Jaskier never dared to bring it up, believed that Geralt would stop doing it if he did. Jaskier never got so much as a pat on the back or a handshake during the sunlit hours… but at night, after a bad dream, Geralt wouldn’t hold back.

So Jaskier never brought it up.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Geralt says, pulling Jaskier from his train of thought.

Jaskier hums in response, kicking a pebble on the ground as they walk through the dimly lit Oxenfurt streets. The pebble goes skidding in front of him, coming to a halt a few feet away, where he reaches it and kicks it again.

Geralt’s soft chuckle catches his full attention; he looks up at the White Wolf with wide eyes, coming to a halt.

“What?” Jaskier asks. “What’s funny?”

Geralt shrugs casually, smiling to himself - a sight that sets Jaskier’s heart on fire. _‘Could he please stop doing that? Since when does the big bad wolf smile?’_

“Nothing, it’s just… you always talked too much, and I always talked not enough… I guess we’ve changed.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt’s back as he continues walking, eyes narrowed, mind racing.

It’s not like Jaskier has actually changed, he just doesn’t know how or if he can open up again, not after what Geralt did. The least he is owed is an apology, maybe then, and only then, could Jaskier start to feel comfortable around the White Wolf again.

“Which way?” Geralt questions, standing in the middle of the crossroads.

Jaskier sighs and gestures towards the left path, leading the way. His house is a small flat near Oxenfurt Academy. It used to be Priscilla’s cousin’s place, but her cousin moved to Novigrad shortly after Jaskier arrived back in Oxenfurt. Priscilla managed to persuade her cousin into selling for a reasonable price.

It takes another five awkwardly silent minutes before they get to Jaskier’s place.

When they do, Jaskier kneels in front of the doorway, reaching into the broken hatch on the ground where he hides his key.

“You keep your key in that thing?” Geralt mutters, still standing on the street with his arms folded over his chest.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, “Not all of us have secure homes like Kaer Morhen to return to,” Jaskier remarks, unlocking his front door, and pushing it open.

He stands aside, facing Geralt.

“Did you wanna… come inside, or is this where you tell me you’ve got a beast to kill in Oxenfurt?” Jaskier asks, slightly bitter in his tone.

Geralt, for a moment, looks like he’s about to decline but then he walks on past Jaskier, straight inside. Jaskier wasn’t expecting Geralt to agree, certainly not so fast, but hey, as The Witcher said, apparently they’ve _changed_.

With a sigh, Jaskier walks inside, closing the door behind him.

He throws his key down on the mantlepiece, and glances over at Geralt who is standing in the middle of Jaskier’s, very small living space, with an unreadable expression.

Jaskier isn’t quite sure what to make of it, so he hurries over to the stairs, “I’ll be back, just… make yourself at home.”

He hurries up the stairs, and into his bedroom, not letting himself _breathe_ until he’s seated on his bed, hands shaking in his lap.

Once Jaskier regains some sense of calm, he decides to change, choosing his blue silk trousers and white chemise.

With a yawn, he forces his feet to return his body downstairs, to where Geralt is now seated on Jaskier’s cushioned bench, with his hands clasped on his knees and a serious expression donning his face.

“Hey, uh…” Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “You hungry? I don’t have much, mainly because Priscilla raided my shelves last week but I’ve got leftover stew from the tavern, could heat that up or -”

“Who’s Priscilla?” Geralt interrupts, eyes narrowing.

Jaskier’s mouth falters, brain screeching along the tracks. That’s not what he thought Geralt was going to ask, it’s not important, at all, to what Jaskier was _trying_ to explain.

“Priscilla… she - she’s my friend, the first one I had after I left home, well you know - Lettenhove,” Jaskier explains, busying his hands with tidying up the mess of parchment sitting on the desk nearby. It’s all failed attempts at lyrics - pieces of songs that don’t fit with the images and ideas in Jaskier’s head.

No matter how hard Jaskier tries, he can’t seem to get a full song down, it’s like he’s hit a creative block.

“So she’s not your newest conquest?”

Jaskier whips his head around to stare at Geralt.

The Witcher isn’t even looking at him, instead, down at the parchment that Jaskier left on the bench. Even from where Jaskier is standing, he can see the terribly written - quite frankly - cheesy, lyrics.

It’s not exactly a song he wanted to share with the White Wolf of Rivia.

With a thud of his heart, and heat in his cheeks, he quickly grabs the piece of parchment and returns it to the desk, berating himself for leaving his shitty music lying around. For Melitele’s sake, the lyrics are _about_ Geralt, not subtle too so if he’s read it -

“That poetry isn’t about her?” The Witcher asks, voice surprisingly gruff.

_‘What’s got his panties in a twist?’_ Jaskier thinks, running a hand through his hair.

“Ha! Poetry? I surely hope you think more of my abilities than that rubbish,” Jaskier places his hands on his hips. “And no, that isn’t about Priscilla, she’s just a friend, like a sister to me.”

The thin line of Geralt’s mouth eases, and he nods.

“Stew.”

“What?”

“Stew, is fine… to eat.”

“Oh right, sure.”

Jaskier nods, exiting into the kitchen with a thumping in his heart and his cheeks still warm.

“Thank you,” Geralt mutters as he sits his bowl onto the ottoman.

Jaskier furrows his eyebrows, swallowing his food, “What for?”

“The food, the stay…” Geralt looks down at the empty bowl, mouth turning down into the start of a frown. “I honestly thought you’d punch me the next time we met.”

The ache in Jaskier’s heart returns.

He looks down too, staring at the stew left in his bowl, now cold. The piece of carrot stuck to a piece of cabbage is suddenly very interesting.

“Well, the night isn’t over yet,” Jaskier quips, but there is no heat to it. It surprises even himself.

As he can feel Geralt’s eyes burning into his soul, he stands from his chair, and takes Geralt’s empty bowl, and his own, back to the kitchen, laying them down in the sink. With a heavy sigh, he leans back against the nearest wall.

He’s so confused.

Geralt seems to have changed, but still no apology, and Jaskier is absolutely not going to beg or ask for one. He’s moved past the stage of his life where he was desperate for Geralt’s approval, or at least, he hopes he is.

Taking another deep breath, Jaskier returns to the living space.

“So, uh, I know it’s not comfortable, but its late so if you wanna sleep here the bench is all yours,” Jaskier grabs a very expensive, fleece blanket from a basket in the corner. “This should keep you warm.”

Geralt nods, taking it with a small smile.

Jaskier gets caught in those eyes - that deep gold - until he manages to snap himself out, taking a step back, and rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks burning once more. He’s a lovesick fool, and it shouldn’t be a surprise at this point.

“Thank you, again,” Geralt says.

Not one thank you, but two. Did Geralt get a lesson in how to be nice to his friends or something?

“No worries.”

***

_Jaskier runs as fast as his feet can take him._

_His lungs burn, and his legs ache but he pushes on, going as fast he can through the dark woods._

_The cracking sound of footsteps behind him, not moving fast but somehow still catching up, makes his heart thud, his blood run cold._

_He’s going to die._

_As the fool he is, he forgets to look down, tripping over a log. He falls flat on his stomach, winding himself, but still scrambling to keep moving._

_It’s too late._

_There is a grip on the back of his doublet, strong, relentless._

_He’s pulled over, and the golden eyed Witcher descends upon him, silver sword at his throat._

_“No! Geralt please!” He screams, tears welling in his eyes._

_Geralt doesn’t listen, eyes dark. He presses the sword in._

_Jaskier chokes._

_“I can’t believe I ever called you my friend, you’re nothing but a monster - I bet I could get good coin for your head,” Geralt growls out, pressing the sword in deeper._

_“Please! Stop Geralt!”_

_He struggles, pushes at the sword._

_“I’m not a monster! Please believe me!”_

‘Jaskier.’

_“No! Stop!”_

‘Jaskier wake up.’

_“Help! Don’t -”_

***

“Jaskier, wake _up_.”

Jaskier wakes like he always does with nightmares, throwing his body forward in the dark, skin cold with sweat, head racing, heart thumping with pure panic, blood pumping from fear, cheeks wet with tears, hands shaking.

For so long, he’s had to deal with waking up from these terrors alone.

But tonight, there is strong arms around his torso again, holding him against that warm chest that smells of vanilla and smoke, and everything Jaskier missed amongst the cold, lonely months. It’s such a relief that more tears start flowing freely down Jaskier’s cheeks.

“You alright?” Geralt asks, voice that soft hush.

Jaskier shakes his head, clinging tight to the Witcher - mind in a disoriented state. He doesn’t know how to talk right now, not with his head running at a pace his mouth can’t replicate.

A hand comes up to rub Jaskier’s back.

The bard practically swoons, burying his head deeper into the crook of Geralt’s neck, and breathing in that comforting scent of vanilla.

At least he knows Geralt is still buying soap.

“You’ll be okay, it was just a nightmare,” The White Wolf assures, moving his hand up, fingers carding through Jaskier’s hair.

Jaskier hums, enjoying the warmth filling up his heart.

Until he remembers his dream, and his heart drops to his stomach. Geralt will not show the same warmth when he finds out who - what Jaskier is. He just won’t. Unless Jaskier wants the real life act of his dream, he should probably distance himself from the Witcher.

He pushes away, scratching the back of his neck - a nervous habit that flares up around the White Wolf.

“Geralt I -”

“Shh,” Geralt hushes, sitting up straight and glancing back at the door.

Jaskier scowls, taken aback.

“Did you just shush me? Geralt I swear -”

“Jaskier seriously, " Geralt places his hand over Jaskier’s mouth, startling the very confused bard. “I heard something.”

Jaskier goes still, focusing his hearing on the noise outside his bedroom, heart rate rising.

“Someone’s got in, they’re downstairs,” Geralt whispers.

_Fuck._


	4. The Prophecy Of Yellow Petals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is done with cryptic words. He wants people to talk. But not everyone is willing.

_Dream what you must dream_

_For the ending is all you seek_

_Forget your brilliant scheme_

_For your knights may be weak_

_Desolation will rise, upon the dark skies_

_Your destruction will come, upon the last thrum_

_So listen close_

_Or you’ll drink your dose_

_When the end befalls you_

_And blood rains thick_

_Only one will break through_

_To make your saving stick_

_But the chosen must fall_

_To enhance all_

_And when the world will tilt_

_Look where yellow petals wilt_

***

“ _Geralt.”_

The Witcher doesn’t respond, eyes focused on the door, nose twitching like a dog smelling something _off_ … something dangerous lurking.

A hammering heartbeat is all Jaskier has to offer. He sits on the edge of his bed, feet cold as they’re set barefoot on the floor, where an icy draft is whispering through the gap under the bedroom door. He rubs one foot over the other to warm them but it does fuck all.

“Geralt what is it?” Jaskier whispers against the silence of the room.

The bard can’t hear anything, but the White Wolf with all those mutations, can hear each footstep, each creak of a floorboard, each muttered word, each pounding heartbeat… and from these soft noises, he knows, for certain, that there’s exactly four men in Jaskier’s living room area.

Outnumbered.

Geralt has fought more on his own, but by the soft clinking sound, they have swords - heavy ones - and Geralt left his downstairs, on the bench he _was_ sleeping on.

“Fuck,” He sighs, looking around him - around Jaskier’s room - in search for anything that he could possibly fight with. With a huff, he starts pulling open drawers and shuffling through clutter.

“Uh Geralt, mind telling me what’s going on?” Jaskier whispers, standing from the bed and crossing his harms over his chest.

The Witcher shoves closed one drawer, and opens the next, finding only lute strings, and what looks like letters from some Troubadour; nothing _useful_.

“Dammit Geralt, you stop talking when it’s needed? Fucking -”

“There are armed men - four of them in your downstairs living room, where my swords are, so unless we want to die or jump out a second story window, we’re going to need weapons,” Geralt explains, opening a closet and peering inside, finding only shining doublets.

Jaskier looks to the door, fear in his blue eyes, “Oh.”

The White Wolf tunes in his hearing, and isn’t at all calmed by the sound of footsteps slowly ascending the stairs.

“Shit,” Geralt turns around and walks across the room to where Jaskier is still standing frozen. He takes the bard’s shoulders in his hands and gives him a little shake, bringing unfocused blue eyes to Geralt’s. “I need you to think, do you have anything in here that could be useful?”

Jaskier bites his lip, thinking.

“Yeah, maybe.”

With that, Jaskier rushes over to his dresser, and pulls open the bottom drawer. He rifles through colourful trousers, eventually pulling out a dagger.

It’s not just any dagger. It’s a stunningly gold one with a yellow hilt, decorated with cornflower blue gems in an intricate pattern; the dagger was gifted to Jaskier, by Geralt five years ago. Geralt didn’t think the bard would still have it, not after… well, the _mountain_.

“Here, not much, but it’s all I got I’m afraid,” Jaskier hurries back over, handing Geralt the gorgeous weapon.

The Witcher takes it, stunned for moment. But he shakes himself out of it.

“Okay, stay back, ones coming up the stairs. I’ll knock that one out and you grab his sword, got it?”

Jaskier nods, retreating to stand to the left side of his bed, a good distance from the door. Geralt, on the other hand, moves to stand against the wall, next to the door, dagger at the ready.

The thump of footsteps approach soon enough, door creaking as its pushed open.

A tall man, with an ugly scar running from his nose to his chin, wearing black and red armour, walks in, sword held ready to attack the Bard standing seemingly alone in the bedroom. But Geralt is too quick, moving forward swiftly and slitting the mans throat effortlessly.

Before the man can fall to the ground, causing a ruckus, Geralt grabs him - one hand on his back, and the other covering his mouth - and lowers him to the floor silently. If the others downstairs, or on the stairs hear chaos, they’ll come running, and then they will be well and truly, fucked.

“Sword, now,” The Witcher whispers, already exiting the bedroom.

Jaskier does as he’s told, grabbing the sword from the lifeless intruder, and holding it tightly by the the hilt. He follows Geralt, finding him pressed against the wall of the hallway, focused on the sound of footsteps nearing.

Jaskier takes the same position, right beside the Witcher, palm sweaty where it’s wrapped around the hilt of the sword.

“Wait here,” Geralt orders, and steps out onto the stairs where another man awaits.

Jaskier peeks around the corner, watching as The White Wolf moves fast, disarming the man in one quick motion. Then Geralt stabs the man’s own sword through his chest, and steps back.

That’s two down, two to go.

This time Geralt is too slow to catch the falling body and the man tumbles backwards down the stairs, creating a loud rhythm of thuds.

“Get them!” A croaky voice screeches from the kitchen.

Geralt grabs the sword from the body, and hurries down the stairs, Jaskier hurrying after. He jumps the last step, just as two men, dressed in the same armour as the others, come barreling out of Jaskier’s kitchen, swords at the ready. One has a wooden shield.

“Wasn’t expecting a Witcher, but I guess _he_ could add your head to _his_ wall too,” The man with no shield barks, awfully confident for someone who’s men just died.

Geralt snickers, amused by the cockiness.

And just like that they attack, the one with the shield moving for Jaskier, whilst _Cocky_ goes for Geralt.

“Ah shit,” Jaskier curses, throwing his sword up to block a swing from _Shield_ _Man._

Jaskier stumbles back from the effort, but quickly dodges a charge, taking the opportunity to swing a hit at _Shield Man’s_ back, getting his shoulder. The slice not only rips a sleeve but tugs blood, which is a small win.

Until _Shield Man_ gets angry, and thumps Jaskier in the chest with his shield. Then continuing to swing his sword at Jaskier’s neck. The bard barely has time duck, but he does so successfully, throwing a leg out to trip _Shield Man_.

He goes down like a sack of potatoes, shield slipping from his grasp, giving Jaskier the opening to stab the sword down into the man’s heart.

As the third intruder lays dying on the floor, Jaskier stumbles back, feeling pain in his left arm, and sweat on his skin. He breathes heavily, gasping for breath as Geralt throws a fatal blow to _Cocky’s_ head.

“Fuck,” Geralt curses again, throwing the sword on the dead man’s body and moving to collect his own from the bench.

Jaskier, however, stays where he’s stood, checking his left bicep where his night shirt is ripped and a bloody wound lays beneath. It’s not too deep, from what he can tell, but by god that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“We gotta move, the stables weren’t too far from here, we should be able to make it before reinforcements come, but we should move quick. There’s no sense in hesitating,” Geralt says, still dishing orders, and not _explaining_ what’s going on.

Jaskier forgets his wound for the moment, and turns to furrow his brow at The Witcher’s back.

“Can you just, hold on a second?” Jaskier asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Who were they and why were they after us?”

Geralt turns around, “They weren’t after us, didn’t you hear them? They were after you. For some reason. Maybe some husband you pissed off by sleeping with his wife - whatever it was about, they wanted you dead. And judging by the heavy armour, and colour coded clothes, they weren’t likely to be working on some Inkeeper’s money.”

Jaskier drops onto the ottoman behind him, body sore with exhaustion.

“More likely, is a Lord’s army, or guards. Which means, they’ll be smart enough to send reinforcements when their first lot don’t return, so we have to leave, _now.”_

Geralt emphasises his words with a clang of his swords, pulling his boots back on.

Jaskier nods, head pounding.

He understands Geralt’s urgency, even tells himself in his head to just _get up_ but his body won’t cooperate with the orders in his head. All he can do is hold is head in his hands, trying his hardest to slow his breathing down to a normal pace.

“Jaskier.”

He tries again, but there’s hot sticky feeling growing in his left arm; it’s consuming every nerve, every cell in his side, stimulating a throbbing pain that pounds in his already _so sore_ head.

Something is _definitely_ not right.

“Jas… dammit,” Geralt grunts, suddenly too close to Jaskier.

It’s too much, everything is too hot for the bard - especially the warm White Wolf with intense body heat.

Jaskier tries to speak, to tell Geralt to move back, to give him some space, but what comes out is a mixture of incomprehensible vowels, and a whimper.

It feels like there’s no room in his lungs. The world is too small, too goddamn hot - and his left arm feels as if it’s been sawed off. He can’t even see or hear properly, suddenly everything is too blurry, too outside of his reach. There’s no other way to explain than he feels like he’s dying.

Maybe it wasn’t just a skin wound.

“Jask, hey, hold on,” The White Wolf orders - _always_ ordering, demanding Jaskier do _this_ , do _that_. Jaskier tries to tell The Witcher exactly that, but he’s not quite sure what comes out.

“Just hold on, I think… dammit, whatever was on his sword, it… well, it’s probably poison,” Geralt informs, _too hot_ hands on Jaskier’s bicep, holding _too_ tight.

The throbbing in his left arm has swarmed to his neck now, and he can’t breathe. He tries to scream but he can’t hear his own voice. The burning inside his stomach is getting worse, he can’t handle it.   
“Jas, hey…”

That’s the last thing Jaskier hears before he’s falling, drifting to the dark.

***

_With a gust of air, the flowers fly into the air, petals floating for half a second before descending in such a graceful manner that Julian reckons the finest of queen should be jealous._

_It’s not enough to make Julian smile though._

_Not now._

_“Son.”_

_His father sits next to him on the steps, velvet coat brushing against Julian’s bare forearms, tickling his skin._

_With a huff, he pulls his arm away, crossing both arms against his chest._

_“Julian, I know you don’t like her, but please don’t be mad at me -”_

_“She’s a nasty old bully! Why do you have to marry her?!” Julian shouts, anger bubbling through his veins, making his nose twitch._

_The Viscount, his father, sighs, “Because I love her, that’s what you do when you love someone, and they love you.”_

_Julian scowls, kicking a rock, making it tumble down the steps._

_“But she doesn’t love you, she just wants your money,” Julian insists, glaring at the petals floating in the pond like little yellow fish._

_“Now, Julian, I understand you’re upset but that’s no way to talk about someone. There is no need to be so cruel. She is a respectful woman, who I adore, and am going to marry, talk to me when you’ve decided to behave,” The Viscount disciplines, standing and walking back into the house._

_Julian stays seated, staring at the sinking, wilted petals._

***

Jaskier wakes up cold, and sore.

The first thing he sees is the orange glow of a fire, the second thing he sees is Roach standing next to a tree, grazing on grass.

For a moment, he thinks he’s travelled back in time, to when he was still on the path by Geralt’s side - camped out in some dark part of the woods - but then he feels the aching pain in his arm and realises Geralt must’ve carried him here after he passed out. Something Jaskier has been doing a lot of lately.

“Ugh,” He groans, pushing himself up with his right arm. “Well I feel like shit.”

There is a dull throb in his head and there’s a tingling sensation in his lungs but besides that, he’s doing a lot better than he was before he clocked out cold - or hot. There’s that too, at least now he’s not burning up from the inside out.

With another groan, he bends his neck, looking down at his arm. His sleeve is rolled up, and there’s a bandage wrapped around his bicep. The shirt he’s now wearing is also _not his_.

It takes Jaskier a full minute to process the idea of Geralt stripping him of his own shirt, and replacing it with the black one that certainly belongs to the brooding old Witcher. After that minute, it takes even longer to force himself to fucking breathe.

“You’re awake?”

Speak of the devil, Geralt returns from wherever he was, most likely off hunting, judging by the rabbit in his hand.

Jaskier feels the heat return to his cheeks.

“Yeah, I uh… how long was I out?” He asks, looking down at the bedroll he’s sitting on, as Geralt lays the rabbit down next to the fire.

“A day,” The White Wolf responds, coming to kneel down next to the bedroll. His hair is out of its usual half up, half down style, hanging loose around his eyes. Jaskier is stricken, painfully, in the chest by just how stunningly beautiful the Witcher looks. If poison doesn’t kill him, Geralt’s beauty sure might. “How you feeling?”

The heat in his cheeks grows to his ears.

“Uh… not too bad, better than before,” He answers, picking the grass next to him. “Do you know what did that? Did you figure out what the poison was?”

Geralt’s eyes shift, landing on Jaskier’s arm. He hums noncommittally, taking the bard’s bicep in one hand, and slowly unwrapping the bandages with the other.

The soft warmth lights Jaskier’s chest.

“Roseseed Oil,” Geralt informs, voice clipped like the words irritate him.

The Witcher’s shoulders are tense, his eyes are dark, intent on focusing on only the bandages on Jaskier’s arm and nothing else. The closed off, almost angry grimace on Geralt’s face sends Jaskier into an internal panic - heart thumping and head spinning.

Jaskier doesn’t know what Roseseed Oil is but whatever it is, he’s guessing it hasn’t put The Witcher in a great mood.

“That’s what you were doing… in those fucking tunnels,” Geralt mumbles, dropping the blood stained bandages aside, and standing up to fetch new ones.

Meanwhile, Jaskier’s stomach drops and his blood runs cold.

‘ _Run, you fool,_ ’ That voice in his head screams but he’s paralysed, staring at Geralt’s back with wide eyes, and a dropped jaw.

He needs to say something. Protest, act confused… _anything_.

“What?” His voice is weak, broken, too soft to be convincing, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Geralt returns, new bandages in hand.

Maybe he doesn’t know… surely he wouldn’t patch Jaskier up if he found out _what_ Jaskier is. Maybe this is just a misunderstanding.   
The Witcher sits back down, taking Jaskier’s arm in his hand again, inspecting the dark red wound. Jaskier can’t mistake the scowl on Geralt’s face.

“How’d you do it?” Geralt growls, deadly calm for the fury burning in those golden eyes. “Is there some spell that can bypass a Witcher medallion?”

Jaskier’s chest heaves. He needs to run but Geralt’s grip on his arm is just another thing keeping him stuck where he is.

“I don’t know… Geralt -”

“Cut the act, it’s impressive, how long you kept it up, but I’m a Witcher… I know what Roseseed Oil is. It’s only harmful to the fae,” Geralt snaps, eyes intent on burning a hole through Jaskier’s soul.

The fear building in Jaskier’s chest, making his throat close up, subsides long enough for Jaskier to find the words he’s looking for, “Let go of me.”

Geralt glares. He doesn’t loosen his hold on Jaskier’s arm.

“So, did you get tired of tricking little children into stumbling through rings of flowers so you can feast on their souls or did befriending a Witcher help you keep your own ass safe?”

Jaskier can feel everything pushing at his heart - all the fear, the anger, the hurt, the desperation, the frustration… it’s all too much. It all claws at his eyes, creating a flow of saltwater.

He pulls, shoving Geralt’s hand away, “I said let go.”

As tears drip down Jaskier’s cheeks, he leaps to his feet and walks away, leaving Geralt there and praying the Witcher doesn’t follow. Maybe if Jaskier shows that he’s harmless, that he’s not in for a fight, Geralt might leave him be.

Jaskier finds a river five minutes away.

He drops down at the edge, pulling his knees up to his chest, and spilling out every emotion that’s been tugging at his heartstrings. He sobs and sobs, tears descending into the flow of the the river - saltwater mixing with freshwater.

***

_“Geralt!”_

_Jaskier has been shouting for ages, so long his voice is raw. And still, no sign of the White Wolf._

_It was supposed to be a simple hunt, Geralt said before he left, that it would be an hour, tops. But it’s been six, so Jaskier left the comfort of the Inn to trek the dark and scary woods alone, to find his hopefully, alive, Witcher._

_“Geralt! You ass, where are you?!” Jaskier screams, ducking under a low branch and side stepping a snake coiled near a rock._

_Luckily enough, it goes slithering away._

_Jaskier shivers, and turns around, putting his hands on his hips._

_He sighs dramatically._

_“Fucking Witcher’s,” he mutters under his breath, continuing through the dense woods._

_He pushes through an especially overgrown berry bush, and stops in his tracks when he sees the still form of Geralt, sitting on the wet grass with his back against a rock._

_Jaskier runs, dropping to his knees beside Geralt, heart pounding._

_“Geralt, what the hell, are you -”_

_“Shut up,” The Witcher grits out through clenched teeth._

_Up close Jaskier can see the White Wolf has his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands are closed into tight fists by his side._

_It doesn’t scare Jaskier like it probably should. Instead his concern for the wolf skyrockets._

_“Are you okay, tell me what’s wrong?”_

_Jaskier’s eyes search for a wound but there isn’t one. No blood, no scratches. Geralt seems to be intact._

_“Just leave, I’ll be fine in an hour,” Geralt growls, dropping his head, teeth bared into fangs._

_Jaskier doesn’t leave, instead placing a hand on Geralt’s shoulder._

_“I’m certainly not leaving you, tell me what’s wrong.”_

_Geralt groans, sounding like he’s in immense pain. It hurts Jaskier just as much._

_“Too… senses are… too much,” The Witcher grunts, letting the empty potion bottle slip from his grasp._

_Jaskier’s heart clenches._

_“Okay, alright um… anything I can do to help?” Jaskier lowers his voice for starters, whispering instead. God only knows how loud everything is to Geralt right now._

_The Witcher doesn’t respond at first, but then, there’s a gloved - shaking - hand gripping Jaskier’s own, tightly. The bard’s heart thuds against his ribcage, and he worries, that the sound is too loud… can Geralt hear his heartbeat?_

_Carefully, Jaskier laces his fingers through Geralt’s, squeezing softly, letting the Witcher know that the action is okay, that he’s going to stay by the Witcher’s side no matter what._

_“Can you open your eyes? Or is everything too bright?” Jaskier asks, shuffling an inch or two closer._

_Geralt grunts, leaning his head back against the rock._

_He opens his eyes._

_Jaskier barely contains a gasp, stunned at the sight of the White Wolf’s eyes. They’re entirely black, like the pupils have escaped past the irises, covering the entire eyeballs._

_It looks painful._

_“Oh dear heart, does it hurt?”_

_Geralt nods._

_Jaskier, with his heart thumping in his ears, places a hand on the side of Geralt’s face, thumb brushes over the darkened skin around Geralt’s eyes. The Witcher is freezing, ice cold to the touch. It concerns the bard to no end._

_“Is there… do you have any potion that could fix it? Can I do anything to… help?”_

_The Witcher gestures behind Jaskier, so he spins around, eyes falling on Geralt’s pack discarded near a tree stump._

_“White Honey… it’s the round bottle, yellowish liquid.”_

_Jaskier leaps to his feet, and grabs Geralt’s pack, returning to his spot next to the Witcher. He rests the pack in his lap, and rummages through it, finding the described bottle, and tugging off the cork._

_With relief easing the knot in his stomach, Jaskier lifts the bottle to Geralt’s lips and tips it slowly down the White Wolf’s throat._

_He pulls back his hand after a moment, screwing the cork back in the top of the bottle, watching Geralt’s eyes nervously._

_It only takes less than a minute for the blackness to retreat, golden eyes showing their sharp burst of colour once more._

_Jaskier sighs in relief, head falling forward to rest on Geralt’s shoulder._

***

The wind shifts.

With the sun rising over the horizon, the breeze drops a few degrees, flowing through the river and messing with Jaskier’s hair. The tears have dried into tracks down his cheeks, and an emptiness has settled into his chest.

The pain that lurks in his heart, clouding his mind, threatens to send him spiralling down another dark rabbit hole, one with no end. But it’s the crack of a twig, the brush of leaves that distract his mind.

He turns his head, leaping to his feet, trying to be brave despite the thudding in his chest. At the glimpse of white hair, Jaskier reaches for the dagger in his boot, knowing it’s no match against a Witcher but if he’s going to die - he’s going to die with dignity.

“Hey, easy,” Geralt holds his hands up in front of him. “Not here to hurt you.”

There’s a softness to the White Wolf’s eyes. It confuses the shit out of Jaskier, but mostly sends his blood boiling. He doesn’t understand Geralt anymore, how is he supposed to figure out the wolf if his mood changes every five minutes?

“Oh really?! I apologise then Geralt cause I must’ve just imagined that whole shit show back there!”

Jaskier grips the hilt of his dagger, panting out shaky breaths.

Geralt doesn’t respond, eyes drifting away to the river.

“You know, this is fucking typical, I start to let myself trust you again, you know? Cause I’m a fucking fool?! And then you do it all again, you treat me worse than your horse’s droppings because… I don’t even know! I haven’t even done anything to you to warrant this kind of cruelness, so… ugh!” Jaskier turns around, facing the willow tree that’s hanging over the river.

A gust of wind flies by, making all the dangling leaves dance.

Jaskier wants to throw something, he wants to rip every fucking leaf off the Willow and throw them in the river. He wants to run right up to the stupid Witcher, and punch him right in the eye because he deserves better than Geralt’s treatment. He wants -

“I’m sorry,” It’s soft, it’s small, but it breaks through every sound existing in that moment.

Jaskier almost trips on his own feet turning back around to face the White Wolf.

He stares.

Geralt doesn’t stare back, eyes still on the rippling water, “I’m sorry for what I said, on the mountain.”

The bard’s poor heart could give out from pure shock.

“I’m sorry Jas, I… I just…” The Witcher struggles for words, not an uncommon occurrence. “When it all clicked, at first I was shocked, then hurt cause I thought… I thought you tricked me, like the only person I could call a friend, was just using me.”

Jaskier’s legs shake, so he sits back down, on the nearest rock.

Geralt doesn’t want to kill him.

The Witcher is _sorry_.

The White Wolf calls The Bard, his _only_ friend.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, leaning his spinning head in his hands.

With a sigh, Geralt sits down next to Jaskier, hands clasped between his legs. They sit there in silence, breathing, thinking - with only the stream to add rhythm - until Jaskier finds the words he’s looking for.

“I’m not… I’m only half,” He lifts his head, runs his fingers through his hair. “My mum was Fae, my dad was human… I’m not some billion year old Fae that tricked you into some deal… I’m a thirty nine year old bard who happens to have some useless Fae blood… I didn’t lie to you about anything Geralt.”

Jaskier lets his eyes meet those golden ones briefly. It’s like taking a lightning bolt to the heart.

Geralt nods, eyebrows pinching down, “Useless?”

“Can’t do a single spec of magic.”

The Witcher’s brows descend even further, golden irises glinting as clenches his jaw.

“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t, half blood elves are still as powerful as regular elves.”

Jaskier shrugs.

“Well I’m just not.”

Geralt hums, looking off into the distance, seemingly deep in thought whilst Jaskier fidgets with the fraying string of his trousers. He doesn’t like the awkward silence, the tension lies in the air thick enough to cut.   
“Your mum? Can’t you just seek advice from her?”

Mum. Lilia.

_‘Your mother is alive.’_

Jaskier swallows the lump in his throat, “Well, my dad _told_ me she died when I was born.”

Geralt narrows his eyes.

“Did he lie to you?”

The bard scoffs, glaring at the crystal blue water.

“Apparently…”

A few deafeningly silent seconds pass before Geralt clears his throat, raising his eyebrows at Jaskier, “Want to elaborate, Jas?”

There is that fucking nickname again, it sets his heart alight, sends the butterflies into a mania in his stomach. Twenty years Geralt stuck to ‘The Bard’ with an occasional, ‘Jaskier’, but never did he receive a nickname like that.

He glances over again, that golden gaze drawing his attention close, filling his heart with warmth and his head with a daze. It would be so easy to just lean over and…

 _‘Don’t go there you fool,’_ he thinks. _‘Are you trying to get yourself more hurt?_

The Witcher softly nudges him in the shoulder to get his attention, and he jolts back away from the touch, electricity coursing through his veins, buzzing at where clothed shoulder’s bumped. Surely Jaskier can’t be the only one who felt _that_.

“You don’t have to answer,” Geralt mutters, eyes on the grass beneath their shoes.

Jaskier shakes his head, “No it’s fine, just… it was why I was in the tunnels.”

The Witcher picks up at that, attention surely focused on what Jaskier has to say, so with his heart stuttering, he continues.

“One of the fae, he was the leader I think… Mak, he reached out to me, to tell me my mum was alive. I was supposed to meet him… tonight, holy shit I still have time,” Jaskier leaps to his feet, brushing his hair away from his face.

He turns and starts heading back towards camp.

“Jaskier, hold on,” Geralt calls out, scrambling to catch up with the spritely bard. Jaskier doesn’t slow his pace down, decidedly determined to push through the thick layer of bush and trees like his life depends on it.

Which leaves Geralt in a confused state a few steps behind him, narrowly avoiding the swing of branches and vines.

“Wait,” The bard exclaims, coming to a halt all of a sudden. “How far are we away from Oxenfurt?”

Geralt stops his feet as quickly as he can, almost ramming right into Jaskier and the prickly bush a foot away. He takes a second to breathe, trying his hardest to catch up to where Jaskier’s brain is at. It’s not hard to guess what the bard wants to do - go meet this Fae Leader… Geralt is not exactly on board with that plan.

“A few hours,” He answers, pushing past Jaskier, and taking the lead in the path back to camp. The bard’s sense of direction is frankly off.

“So -”

“No, Jas, I’m not -” It’s Geralt’s turn to stop and turn around abruptly. He comes face to face with the bard, only a few inches being left between them.

Up that close Geralt can see the spidering lines of turquoise in the bard’s cornflower blue eyes; light reflects off of them, all those shades of blue dancing and swirling together. Geralt doesn’t have the casual luxury of enjoying beauty, it’s not in the job description of being a Witcher. There’s no time for appreciating the finer things when you’re trapped inside the gut of a Selkiemore, but as long as that slow mutant heart of his beats in his chest… he’s going to find every detail on Jaskier too beautiful to truly exist.

Geralt has seen the most extraordinary of creatures and yet none come close to the songbird in front of him.

No matter what or who the Witcher meets, not a single one of them manages to make his stomach flutter like it does around the Bard… and he’s spent a good twenty years denying that fact.

“There is a reason I took you out of there, remember? Someone is after you,” He glances around, needs to give his heart a break from those fucking eyes. “And, I’m not about to let you go meet a dangerous Fae in the middle of the night.”

Hoping that will be the end of the conversation, Geralt continues through the forest, ducking under a low branch, one he ducked under on the way out to the river. They’re back on the right track then.

Jaskier makes a noise of protest from behind him, puffing out air through his nose - reeking of frustration - a scent Geralt has smelt on the bard a lot recently.

“You don’t have to _let_ me do anything, you don’t control what I do Geralt. And I’m not asking to go, I’m telling you I’m going.”

With one last swerve past an overgrown weed, they make it back to camp, the fire almost dead; merely a soft glowing ember.

Roach whinnies and tosses her head up happily, giving Geralt a momentary distraction from the guilt lurking in his stomach threatening to spill out every orifice of the White Wolf’s body.

He doesn’t want Jaskier to believe he doesn’t trust him or thinks he can control him, he just… he _cares_ , and that’s not something Geralt is good at navigating. He’s great at many things, especially when it comes to monsters, but this… he’s lost at how to control the desire to just lock up everyone he cares about in some shielded bubble so they’ll be safe.

God knows Ciri didn’t take to his overprotectiveness well. She’s even more stubborn than Jaskier.

“I told you what these, _people,_ are like Jas, they aren’t… they’ve done unspeakable things, to people who didn’t deserve it,” Geralt explains, feeding Roach oat from her saddle pack.

She nudges her head into his shoulder in response.

Jaskier stands at the edge of the camp, arms crossed, nose scrunched up in that way that makes him look oh too adorable for someone who says he’s almost forty. Half fae… yeah that explains the not ageing then.

“So has every other living thing on this planet,” the bard rebuttals.

Geralt sighs, patting Roach on the nose when she pushes her snout into his hand, wanting more oats even though she knows she’s not getting any more.

“Its too dangerous -”

“I don’t care, he has information okay? He’s… he’s the only lead I have…” Jaskier’s voice drops to a soft mutter. There’s real, deep pain fraying the edges of his words.

Geralt leaves Roach’s side, blows the dying fire out with Aard, and then stands in front of Jaskier with preemptive regret for what he’s about to say, and do.

“Fine,” he gives in, noticing how the light returns to Jaskier’s eyes - it’s almost as if they changed colour. “But I’m coming with you.”

Jaskier smiles, some real, bright smile that takes Geralt’s breath away.

“If he pulls anything, if I sense _anything_ off, I’m introducing him to my silver sword,” he continues, returning to Roach’s side so he can grab Jaskier’s pack.

“Of course, of course, sounds fair. I wouldn’t expect much else from you,” Jaskier rambles arms dropping by his sides awkwardly.

Geralt throws the pack to the bard, who only just catches it, stumbling clumsily a few steps back, “What… oh…”

With a grunt, Geralt goes about packing up the rest of the camp.

“This is… my pack, with my clothes… you…”

Geralt waits patiently for Jaskier to finish at least one of those sentences as he folds up the bard’s bedroll and slips it into one of Roach’s saddle bags.

“Thank you Geralt.”

With a warmth filling up his chest, clouding his head, Geralt looks at the bard, at the content - grateful - smile on his face…and he nods, not trusting his mouth, even though he knows what he wants to say.

_I’d die for you, it’s just a pack, don’t thank me._

_***_

_A kick._

_“FOUL ABOMINATION!”_

_A punch._

_“MUTANT SCUM.”_

_A blade._

_“ROT IN HELL.”_

_A wound still bleeding._

_“YOU DESERVE EVERY BIT OF PAIN YOU GET.”_

_A cut never healed._

_***_

“This way, under the bridge,” Jaskier heads towards the downslope of the beach, where the tall stone walls of Oxenfurt above leave little space to walk without treading perfectly good boots in ice cold water.

“Jaskier I swear to -”

“Relax Geralt I’ve been here before, if he wanted to kill me he would’ve,” Jaskier insists, stepping over a particularly large crab as it scuttles across the sand and into the shade escaping the moonlight.

There is never any lamps lit on the beach at night, so they have to resort to trusting their other senses and the moonlight for direction.

Which isn’t hard for the Witcher, but for Jaskier… it’s a little difficult.

For one, he keeps bumping into Geralt.

“That’s comforting,” says the grumpy Witcher, sarcasm dripping all over his tone.

Jaskier simply rolls his eyes in response, side stepping the wave hitting the sand. With the wind whipping through Jaskier’s velvet green, winter doublet, Jaskier is really not interested in suffering through cold, wet feet.

But it means, when he dodges the water, he slams straight into Geralt’s side, again.

It earns a huff from the taller man.

Jaskier expects the Witcher to grunt out some form of ‘watch where you step bard,’ before walking ahead. Or he at least expects a complaint of some sort. He definitely doesn’t expect the White Wolf to grab hold of his hand, and keep walking, guiding Jaskier through the darkness.

Jaskier’s breath hitches.

He forgets how to breathe.

“I’m guessing that’s him,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier turns his attention from their linked hands to the archway under the bridge where he met Man the first time. There’s a shadow, the dark figure of a man, standing, leaning against the stone wall.

“Yeah, should be,” Jaskier agrees, feeling his palm start sweating.

He’s glad it’s dark, because his face is heating up and he can only imagine how much of a flustered mess he must look.   
As usual Geralt is oblivious to what he’s doing to Jaskier, maybe the White Wolf holds all the hands of those he’s close to. Maybe its normal for the Witcher.

“Don’t go to close to him, I’ll be right behind you,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier nods.

Geralt’s hand retreats, leaving Jaskier’s cold and empty.

With another nod to himself, he steps forward, walking into the archway, stopping a good few feet away from where the shadowy figure is standing.

“You made it, started to doubt you got out of there alive,” Mak’s voice booms, echoes off the walls as he leaves the shadows, stepping into the moonlight. There’s a new cut across his nose, most likely from the raid on the den.

Jaskier’s about to respond when Mak’s eyes narrow - flashing red, hand reaching for his sword, “You fucking kidding me, I thought we trusted each other _Julian_.”

Mak’s eyes are focused, glaring at the white haired Witcher behind Jaskier. Which is… fair. Jaskier wasn’t exactly told to come with company, especially not with Witcher company.

He hears the familiar sound of Geralt’s sword being tugged from the sheath, so he spins around placing a hand on Geralt’s chest.

The action shouldn’t stop the Witcher. Geralt is strong, twenty times stronger than Jaskier will ever be, so one weak hand on his chest should do well… nothing. But the White Wolf still stops, halting under the bard’s touch like it has any power over him.

It stirs something pathetic in Jaskier’s stomach.

Geralt’s eyes are fixed on Mak, a scowl forming on his face.

“Hey,” Jaskier says, tilting his head to catch the white wolf’s eyes. “Easy, I know that you don’t trust him… he doesn’t trust you either, which is why you need to put that away.”

Geralt stares at him like he’s grown two heads.

“Are you joking Jaskier, why would -”

“Geralt,” Jaskier pleads, pressing his fingers into the armoured chest - into the space where Geralt’s heart lays beating - guarded under layers upon layers - both figuratively and literally.

The white wolf’s hesitant, flickering gaze meets his.

For a few too short seconds, it’s if Jaskier can feel what Geralt is thinking, can see what what he’s feeling - all in those deep golden eyes that shine bright even in the dark. The warm, stuttering feeling that mutters in the pit of his stomach grows, pouring into his veins, and humming like intoxication. “Please.”

Geralt looks behind Jaskier once more, this time with less heat in his gaze.

Then he returns his sword to its scabbard, standing back, in a symbol of trust. Not for Mak, but of Jaskier… which just sends that hum into a buzz.

“I’m sorry Julian, but I’m not talking about anything with that thing here -”

Jaskier spins around, “That _thing’s_ name is Geralt. And if you know me and my story then most likely you know the White Wolf. Whatever information you have, you can say to the both of us.”

Despite the shaking in his fingers, the tremor in his knees, his voice comes out strong, like a command.

Mak glares, deathly, at the Witcher still standing behind Jaskier.

“I refuse to cooperate with a _Witcher -”_

 _“_ You aren’t cooperating with a Witcher, you’re cooperating with me. Now tell me what you know about my mother, or I _will_ leave you to cooperate with Geralt… and trust me, no one comes out of that alive, but the White Wolf himself,” Jaskier folds his arms over his chest to hide his trembling hands.

Mak’s lip twitches in disgust before he puts his sword away, and lets out a frustrated exhale of air.

“Alright,” Mak grimaces like agreeing to it pains him. “I don’t know much.”

Jaskier ignores how Mak continues to stare daggers at Geralt, instead focusing on the task at hand - on what’s important.

“Well then tell me what you know.”

“It happened a few weeks ago…” Mak sighs, eyes drifting down to the water lapping at the bridge’s pillars.

Jaskier furrows his brow, “What happened two weeks ago?”

Mak clicks his tongue, “Your mother, she turned up at the coven, asking for you, about you.”

With a shiver running up his spine, Jaskier turns away, facing the sea. His heart is thumping in his ears and his breath is lacking in his lungs. She was _looking_ for _him_. She was so close to Oxenfurt… so nearby.

“Why?” It comes out weak, shaky.

“She said something about it being urgent, that she didn’t have much time… she told me to tell you, if I saw you, that…”

Mak doesn’t finish.

It agitates Jaskier.

“Tell me what Mak?” He asks, whipping back around to glare at the Fae Leader. Could he be any more cryptic? Jaskier is tired of people using the most limiteds amount of words they can. It’s exhausting.

The Fae Leader sighs again, “She told me to tell you 'When the world will tilt, look where yellow petals wilt.'”

Jaskier scowls.

“That’s it? My mother turns up out of nowhere after all these years and all she has to give to me is some riddle? You’re joking right?” Jaskier laughs bitterly, hands closing into fists by his sides.

Mak glances down at the sand before glaring at Geralt again, “I might have more information but that comes when your Witcher is under my sword.”

Jaskier stares in disbelief.

Geralt moves behind him, hand reaching for his sword once more, but Jaskier throws his hand out, stopping the White Wolf again without even looking at him.

“Leave it, it’s not worth it,” Jaskier’s nose twitches, and he forces the tears welling to stay inside. “Let’s go Geralt.”

With that Jaskier turns and walks back the way they came, Geralt hesitantly following, hand retreating from his sword. Jaskier doesn’t need to look at Geralt to know he wants more than anything to go back and slice Mak’s head off.

“Should’ve known you’re a traitor to your kind Buttercup! You’ll get what’s coming to you! Just like your filthy whore of a mother!” Mak shouts, sending Jaskier’s blood boiling.

He stops, Geralt stopping too.

He looks up at Geralt, at the concern hiding in those golden irises and he knows… he knows Geralt is waiting for the nod of approval. If what Geralt said was true, then yes, Mak deserves for his head to be cut clean off. But Jaskier knows better, he’s seen what anger - what pain can do… and he promised it wouldn’t change him.

So with all the strength he can muster, he shakes his head, continuing the path back across the beach.


	5. Those Words Unsaid, Remain Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt use to travel together for 20 years... surely picking up where they left off won't be so hard, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO BOY WAS THIS A KICKER TO WRITE... I sat down about a week ago, ready to break my holiday hiatus and get back into this fic, when I experienced a shit ton of writer's block and some burnout from working on another project. I finally got the motivation back a few days later and then because the universe hates me, I lost everything I wrote that day due to me being a dumbass. BUT, I got here eventually. So, without further ado, I present to you, chapter five!

_A scream rips open the silence, tearing wolves from their slumber, and birds to the sky._

_It’s not a happy scream, or one of horror. It’s a broken scream, one filled to brim with pain so intense it makes your heart ache, and your skin crawls with goosebumps._

_The follow up to a scream like that, of course, is wailing; sobbing._

_Julian Alfred Pankratz, the son of the Viscount of Lettenhove, the half-blood fae, well, he does just that… he sobs._

_All around him is dark, the moon providing the only sliver of light; shining over the pond nearby. With that darkness, Julian is not quite sure where his hands are… but he knows they’re covered in blood. Hot, sticky blood._

_He chokes on his tears, begging the hour to change, to wake up in his bed with all of the tragedy gone - inexistent._

_But it’s not possible. The young teenager is forced to feel every bit of pain caused in that moment, forced to understand that no matter how hard he wishes, he can’t turn back time… undo what has been done._

_There is no rewriting the story._

_You can’t bring back the dead._

_So, in that moment of tragedy, grief, Lettenhove gained a new Viscount._

_***_

Jaskier hasn’t said a word since they left Oxenfurt, only responding to Geralt’s questions with a hum here and shrug there.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak with The Witcher, it was just… his thoughts were too loud. He could barely breathe with weight of the world crushing down on his chest. His mother is out there, somewhere, and he has no idea where to start looking… Mak helped in the least way possible.

After they left Oxenfurt, _again_ , they headed east.

Geralt said something about needing to get to Rinde to meet someone. Jaskier was too busy trying to deal with the accompaniment of his thoughts to question the who or the why.

They reached a small town, some farmers village, before nightfall. Which was lucky because Jaskier’s stomach was starting to ache miserably for food.

Also lucky enough, was that the local Tavern/Inn, had a room available, and a chef who is known for his roasted potatoes.

“You haven’t eaten since Oxenfurt,” Geralt states, getting up from his seat. “I’m getting us some food before you fill up on ale.”

Jaskier stares up at The Witcher. There’s that urge in the back of his mind, to say something witty, something sarcastic to ease the tension that lies thick between them, something like ‘Alright _Mother_.’ But he keeps his lips sealed, humming in response instead.

Geralt gives him a quick look, one that Jaskier knows means something close to concern - confusion - but then he’s turning away, walking towards the bar of the tavern and Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to unpack a Witcher’s gaze.

He doesn’t have the energy much for anything. He’s tired - exhausted. His feet hurt, so do his legs - his thighs.

That was always the catch with travelling with Geralt, the achy joints at the end of the day. Don’t get Jaskier wrong, every minute was worth it - he was - is - desperately in love with the White Wolf… but that doesn’t mean he didn’t long for just enough coin to buy his own horse.

Geralt returns with a jug of ale, and two plates of steaming hot food. He sets one plate down in front of Jaskier, the other in front of himself.

The potatoes look delicious. They’re golden brown, and crispy to the touch. The rest of the food on his plate smells just as mouth-watering; warm bread soft with melted butter, carrots and peas dusted with spices and herbs.

He takes a big bite of the potatoes, eyes closing, stomach content. For a small moment, his head shuts up.

Even the ale isn’t bad, fruity and sweet in just the right way.

It understandable that the chef is so popular. Anyone would be if their food tasted like this.

It’s hard to come by across the Continent. Most villages - their taverns - serve up cold soup with no seasoning, or meat stews that just smell like rotten flesh. A warm, spiced meal with fresh veggies and roasted potatoes, is a rare occurrence.

“Seems like you’re enjoying yourself there,” Geralt breaks through his train of thought, wearing that soft smile that makes his insides flip.

Jaskier _is_ enjoying himself.

He’s followed Geralt all over the Continent, even down to Nazair once. Never has the bard received such a well cooked - well seasoned meal.

“Freshly grown crops Geralt, makes a difference,” he responds, having barely swallowed a mouthful of carrots.

The Witcher raises his eyebrows, seemingly amused by how much food Jaskier is shovelling into his mouth. But he doesn’t make any comment, just continues eating his own meal, humming in agreement.

The silence between them returns, and for a few minutes, it’s welcomed. He’d rather eat than talk.

But then the food empties from his plate, and he’s stuck sitting, staring at his utensils, listening to the ever-growing chatter and clatter from the tavern.

There’s a large group of people all gathered around a table at the front of the tavern, laughing, shouting, having a good times. Jaskier watches them, chin in his palm, as they all exchange jokes and stories.

Judging from the similar colours of hair, the alikeness in noses and eyes, and the familiarity they share; they’re a family, a close one.

Something in Jaskier’s chest stings, and his content smile fades from his face.

They look _happy_.

And Jaskier knows he’s just plain envious of them. He’s spent almost a lifetime running, escaping, searching for a home - somewhere he can lay to rest with a smile on his face, warm at the end of the day with a soul or a few by his side - people who want him there, but don’t _need_ him there.

He’s ached for a family ever since he saw the life fade from his father’s eyes.

Just like that, his loud thoughts about his mother, where she could be, if Mak was telling the truth, if the riddle can even be deciphered - it all comes rushing back and Jaskier is exhausted again, tired from battling his own demons on an endless path.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair and skulling down the rest of the ale in his tankard before pouring a new cupful.

The judging eyes of his white-haired companion don’t go unnoticed.

“What?” Jaskier narrows his own eyes, daring the Witcher to comment.

Geralt looks away, down at his peas that are still on his plate.

“Nothing.”

Jaskier scoffs, “Oh really Geralt, now you’re quiet?”

Geralt breathes heavily through his nose, a sign that he’s barely restraining irritation.

“Just go easy, I’m too tired to deal with a drunken bard trying to scale castle walls during the early hours of morning, just to pick ‘very special strawberries’ from some noble’s garden.”

A huff of indignation releases from said bard.

“I’ll have you know Geralt I have never done such things -”

Geralt raises his eyebrows, mumbling something like ‘yeah fucking right’ under his breath. Jaskier’s nose scrunches up, and he glares, hard.

“I _haven’t_!”

“How would you know when you’re such a lightweight that you get blackout drunk more often than not. I’m the one that has to carry your sorry ass back to Inns and camps,” Geralt chuckles.

Jaskier’s mind gets stuck on the thought of the Witcher _carrying_ him. He doesn’t remember ever being _carried._ Does Geralt do that?

“Well fuck off, because there isn’t any castles around here and I’m not drinking that much.”

Somewhere deep down, Jaskier knows they are famous last words. But he couldn’t care less. So what if he does get drunk. It’s not like they have anywhere to be, it’s not as if Geralt has a contract to be focusing on. In Jaskier’s eyes, he believes he deserves a night of fuzzy edges and swaying worlds.

“You’re already on your second,” Geralt argues, laying his fork down on a now empty plate.

Jaskier shrugs, “So?”

The Witcher sighs, shaking his head, “Fine, it’s your life.”

There’s a moment of weighted eye contact, like they’re both trying to read the other’s thoughts. But even after twenty years of companionship, Jaskier is hopeless at the task.

“I’m heading upstairs, I have swords to clean,” Geralt announces, standing up from his seat, and stepping away from the table. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Jaskier’s heart longs in that second, for Geralt to turn, and ask for Jaskier to come up with him - to join him… but instead he watches as Geralt walks away, something - that invisible string - tugging between them.

There’s of course, naturally, a distance between the bard and the white wolf, that wasn’t there before the mountain.

Geralt can’t read Jaskier like he used to, and frankly, the bard’s emotions seem to be all over the place lately; a constant rushing wave between anger, frustration, hurt, sadness, confusion, and what seems like grief.

There was a time, through those years on the path, that Geralt knew every marker, every sign to the bard’s needs and thoughts.

It certainly helped that Jaskier was a talker.

Geralt had never met a single person who talked as much as Jaskier. It was like the bard couldn’t physically stop himself from saying anything on his mind, through conversation or lyrics or poetry.

But then the mountain happened, and Geralt fucked everything up.

Jaskier isn’t the same that’s for sure.

Something eats at the bard, and Geralt is lost as to what. He thought maybe things would go back to normal once he got up the courage to apologise, but nothing changed. Still, Geralt is finding more words to come out of his own mouth rather than Jaskier’s.

It’s rather unsettling.

Especially since the Witcher is so unsure of how to converse with anyone, let alone Jaskier.

He can’t read Jaskier like he once could, but he can still tell that something isn’t right. If he could pin it down to one thing it would be this mother situation.

Jaskier never spoke much of his family. To be honest, Geralt didn’t know much about Jaskier’s past at all. The bard talked a lot, but not about where he came from or who his family was, or even what they were like.

It’s why he was so quick to jump to conclusions, that Jaskier was a fae who just wanted to use Geralt.

The only thing Geralt knew was that Jaskier’s father died. He doesn’t know how, or why, or if he died from natural causes, or was killed… but he knows he died.

That’s about it.

So the whole mother situation, would be Geralt’s top contender for what’s bothering the bard.

He just hopes something will let up soon, that they’ll find something or someone who can help. That’s why they’re heading to Rinde.

The raid on the Coven, wasn’t Geralt’s plan. It was Coen’s.

Coen came to him in Novigrad, told the White Wolf, that him and a few mages were set to travel to Oxenfurt where they knew the Coven was hiding.

There were several myths, legends about the Coven, about how big it was, about where they were. But that was the first rumour to show itself as truth. And as soon as Geralt laid eyes on cornflower blue ones, he forgot all about holding faes accountable for murder, and instead could only think about _Jaskier._

Which wasn’t fucking uncommon for Geralt.

There were too many times over the years where the Witcher lost focus during a fight because Jaskier would rush in with a sword he didn’t know how to wield, and the sense would fly straight out of Geralt. All Witcher training would disappear and he’d be filled with worry, panic.

It’s why he lashed out.

He was never mad at Jaskier for disrupting a fight, he was mad because he was scared.

Nothing frightened Geralt, _nothing_ , except the bard.

Anyway, that’s why they’re heading to Rinde. Because Lambert said to meet him there last time they met, and Geralt needs to find out if the other Witchers know anything about the raid - if Coen blabbed any details, or tried to recruit anyone else.

Maybe finding the truth behind how Coen got hold of the Coven’s location, will lead them to why there’s such an overlap of an army wanting Jaskier dead, and an invasion on a Fae den.

It takes a howling of laughter from downstairs for Geralt to break from his reverie, realising his sword is about as clean as it could possibly be.

Trust him to get so lost in thought of plans, and _Jaskier_ , that he over polishes a sword.

He sighs, and sets the steel sword away before removing the rest of his armour and boots. Then he wanders over to the basin in the corner of the room, rested on top of a dresser. He washes his face, and takes the black piece of fabric out of his hair, letting it all fall around his eyes.

He looks in the mirror, and sighs, _again_.

There’s no certainty in him, as to why he cut his hair. Maybe it was the comment over winter, from Vesemir, ‘Grow your hair any longer and foe will start tugging on it.’ Or maybe it was just the need for change.

The other Witcher’s, Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir, even Coen, keep their hair short. But Geralt isn’t sure how he’d look with his hair cut down to an inch length. So instead he got it cut to his jaw.

Sometime’s change is necessary he supposes.

“Geralt!” The door flies open, banging into the wall with a loud thud.

Geralt isn’t going to lie, it startles him a bit.

Jaskier stumbles in, coming to lean against the wall, in a state that Geralt is not at all surprised to be seeing.

The bard’s hair is a mess, tousled and curling up at the fringe. His doublet is open, buttons of his chemise left open too to show the expanse of chest hair. His cheeks are flushed red and there’s that glazed over look in those cornflower blue eyes that Geralt has seen many times before.

The bard is - as Geralt predicted - drunk.

“Dammit Jaskier,” He mutters, folding his arms and turning his attention from the mirror, to the intoxicated bard.

Jaskier rolls his eyes dramatically, stumbling forward a few feet before falling back, flat on his bum.

If Geralt wasn’t concerned about the mental state of his friend, he would probably be laughing. Instead he walks over with a huff, helping Jaskier to his unsteady feet.

“Told you you’re a lightweight,” Geralt teases, putting an arm around Jaskier’s back to keep him standing upright. It takes a million braincells to ignore the warmth radiating through the bard’s doublet and into Geralt’s skin.

Jaskier turns swiftly, almost falling over again if it wasn’t for Geralt’s hands finding the bard’s waist.

“Fuck you Geralt, you think you know _everything_ ,” Jaskier’s finger presses against his chest, prodding Geralt hard. “But you don’t, you don’t know a fucking thing about me.”

With the bard’s face so close, breathing against him, he can smell the strong scent of alcohol on his tongue. It’s overpowering.

“I know you’re drunk of your ass right now,” Geralt remarks, avoiding those piercing blue eyes.

Jaskier shakes his head, pushing his hand against Geralt’s chest, “I’m only a _little_ drunk.”

To that, Geralt scoffs.

The bard is as sober as the snow is hot.

“That’s a lie if I’ve heard one,” Geralt shoves Jaskier lightly, walking him back towards the bed. “Bed, now.”

An indignant scowl takes place on Jaskier’s face, that cute little scrunch forming over his nose. Geralt’s stomach dips, butterflies filling it like he’s fourteen or _human_. If anyone knew that he got fucking _butterflies_ around the bard, he’d kill them out of embarrassment.

Okay, maybe _kill_ is a little harsh. He’d definitely punch them.

“I’m not a child, Geralt, I can do what I want,” Jaskier rips from Geralt’s grip, tripping over his own feet in attempt to get away.

He ends up, almost, going face first into the dresser. Instead he catches himself, finding his balance.

Geralt folds his arms again, quite exhausted himself. He quite frankly, doesn’t have the energy to deal with this, “Fine, do what you must, I’m heading to bed.”

He does so, removing his shirt and lying down beneath the covers on the right side of the bed. The bed is warm, contrary to the chill of the room. He turns his back to Jaskier, facing the wall, hoping the bard will just decide to go to sleep on his own.

The room falls into a quiet state, with only the faint sound of chatter and laughter below from the tavern bustle, to accent the silence.

That is, until Jaskier starts fumbling around the room, feet falling on the hardwood floor like they’re made of brick. It only takes five minutes for it to stop, but to Geralt’s exhausted body, it feels like an eternity.

Eventually the bed dips, and Geralt turns over, to look at his drunk friend.

Jaskier has seemingly, finally, decided to rest. He’s spread out beside Geralt, on his stomach, with his face buried in the pillow, undressed down to just his smalls.

Which is peculiar.

As many know by now, the two travelled together for twenty years. Through that time, you’d assume they’d seen each other butt ass naked. But only Geralt was comfortable changing in Jaskier’s line of vision.

The bard was always undressing behind trees, in different rooms, asking the Witcher to turn his back.

Geralt has caught glimpses, sure, from wandering eyes and walking in on romantic affairs, but anything more than a doublet discarded and a view of chest hair wasn’t common.

The White Wolf was never sure why.

He had his suspicions, of course. Maybe Geralt had made him uncomfortable. Or maybe Jaskier was simply insecure. Or maybe the bard just admired his privacy. Either way, Geralt didn’t really mind, didn’t let it bother him.

But now, he thinks he knows why.

At first glance, there’s nothing interesting about Jaskier’s skin, besides from the faint freckles and the smooth, golden complexion… there’s nothing to comment on that Geralt isn’t aware of already.

Until he drifts his eyes down, and there it is.

Sneaking out from the waist band of Jaskier’s smalls, is a green stem, a leaf or two. The spidering green lines bloom into several bright yellow flowers, dancing upon the tanned skin of Jaskier’s lower back.

It’s beautiful.

The details go deep, darker green lines forming the spines of leaves, lighter yellow dots forming the pollen. It’s almost as if someone has painted the skin, or stuck a bunch of flowers right there.

Witcher’s know little about Faes.

At the conjunction of sphere’s many beasts, creatures, nonhuman beings appeared on the continent. So did magic.

Some realms faded, some realms dissolved into this one. Other realms simply fell into the Continent, existing beneath the surface of human eye.

One of those realms was the Fae Realm.

Many humans, Witchers even, over the years, have tried to uncover these hidden lands, for reasons good and bad; greed of power, and curiosity.

But the Faes stayed hidden.

There isn’t a single being, that Geralt knows of, that knows where the Realm is and how to get there.

Only the Faes know that.

So their secrets are well kept.

Creatures like Nymphs and Water Sprites, are common fairy folk. They cross paths with humans, elves, Witchers all the time.

Some are kind, some are mischievous, but every Witcher knows how to deal with them.

At Kaer Morhen, they are taught, in detail about every beast, creature and monster - their weaknesses and strengths, their hideouts, their thought processes, their urges, and most importantly how to kill them.

There is only a mere paragraph on the Fae.

Three dot points:

  * The Fae don’t rely on chaos for magic and power, so the limitations to their abilities is quite unknown.
  * Instead they rely on nature. So seemingly most fae folk, have marks on their bodies, of flowers or plants, that appear once they are named.
  * They are dangerous. Do not engage with a fae. Its weaknesses are unknown. If you ever find a child, a human, in trouble, from walking into a flower ring… leave them. Inform their kin of their death. There is no return from an encounter with a fae.



The mark, the flower, resting on Jaskier’s lower back, disappearing beneath his underwear… its a fae mark, something Geralt could’ve only imagined to be half this extraordinary.

“You good, staring at my ass?” Jaskier mumbles, the edges of his words slurred from intoxication.

If Geralt could blush, he would. Instead he snaps his gaze away, refusing to look at the bard’s decorated skin, or those blue _fucking_ eyes.

The ceiling is suddenly very interesting.

“That’s a fae mark, isn’t it?”

Jaskier doesn’t respond.

The silence draws out, and Geralt looks over.

The bard now has his cheek rested on his folded arms, eyes focused on the quilt of the bed. There’s a darkness in those irises, that the Witcher can’t reach. Something is lurking beneath the colours of the ocean.

“Yes, it is,” Jaskier finally responds.

Geralt knows that the uneasiness around the topic is probably his fault. But he can’t stop the curiosity sparking in his brain, luring him to _not_ keep his mouth shut.

“True you get it after your named?”

For a moment he regrets asking, because Jaskier might not even know the answer. He wasn’t raised by a Fae. He was raised by a human.

The bard pushes himself up into a seated position, staring at down at Geralt like the Witcher has grown a second head, “Are you kidding? Is that what you’re taught?”

Geralt shrugs, sitting up himself, leaning his back against the headboard.

Jaskier shakes his head in disbelief.

“We do not get it after we’re named. We’re born with it.”

A crease forms in Geralt’s brow.

“Wait, I thought that the flower shows the fae’s name.”

“It does, just the opposite way around,” Jaskier crosses his legs. “We’re born with it, and our parents or parent in my case, name us after that mark. Everyone has something different. And each mark is a symbol of our source of power.”

Geralt hums in response. Then he smiles softly in thought.

“So what if I started calling you buttercup?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“I’d hit you.”

“You wouldn’t get the chance,” Geralt pauses. “ _Buttercup_.”

The bard leans over, reaching to flick the White Wolf, on the nose most likely - but he doesn’t get the chance, because as Geralt predicted, Jaskier is too slow for Witcher reflexes.

Geralt swiftly grabs Jaskier’s wrist, tugging him down.

He thinks… scratch that he doesn’t know what he was thinking, and he doesn’t realise it’s a bad idea until Jaskier’s face is half an inch away from his, body pressed against his own, hands on his scarred chest.

Up that close, Geralt can see all the colours - all the shades of blue - that exist in the bard’s irises.

Cornflower is definitely the way to describe them.

Around the pupil is a wave of deep indigo. It gradients out to a sea of cobalt and azure, flecks of cerulean and white splashed through.

His eyes are works of art.

If Geralt was born in another life, if he was a painter - an artist, he’d spend a lifetime trying to paint something that did those eyes justice. He wouldn’t succeed.

A puff of warm breath lures his wandering gaze to parted lips.

Those soft pink, _shining_ , lips look so smooth, so flawless compared to Geralt’s chapped ones. There’s no rough dead skin, or dryness.

All it would take is a tilt of the head and he could taste those lips, that mouth with his own.

The door creaks.

“Excuse me, Sir you left…”

They both jolt in surprise, Jaskier jumping back away from Geralt, like he’s been burned.

Which leaves Geralt’s heart burning in response.

The bard sits at the far end of the bed, biting his nails.

In the doorway, stands the barmaid from downstairs, Jaskier’s lute gripped in her hands. She looks like a deer caught in headlights, like she’s the one who was caught in a questionable position with her best friend.

_Fuck_.

“Sorry, was I interrupting something?” She asks, eyes wide, voice trembling with uncertainty.

Jaskier, the one who usually takes care of conversational matters like this one, stays dead quiet, his face a deep red. Geralt clears his throat, forcing the words out, “Uh, no, it’s fine.”

The barmaid nods, hesitantly walking in a few steps, holding up the lute.

“You left this Sir, downstairs.”

She places the lute on the dresser, in a careful manner, before retreating to the doorway.

  
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” Jaskier speaks up, offering the barmaid an awkward smile. She smiles back before closing the door after her exit.

The second that door closes, Geralt’s stomach sinks into a panic of sorts. The embarrassment rushes through him, closely followed by the guilt - the shame.

He was taught to control every ounce of himself that would ever want to give in to emotional - romantic desires. Yet here he is, almost taking advantage of a drunk bard, all because of those pretty eyes, and pretty lips.

He’s weak. A monster.

He can’t let it happen again.

So he lies back down, turning to face the wall again, praying Jaskier doesn’t bring up what just happened.

The sound of rustling, of Jaskier lifting back the covers and lying down beneath them, comes as a relief to the White Wolf.

“Night Geralt,” It’s a quiet mumble of words, but Geralt still hears.

He closes his eyes, sighs.

“Night Jaskier,” He responds, using Aard to blow out the candles, the room, plunged into darkness.

Sleep pulls him under.

***

_There is something clawing at his throat, tearing out words he cannot hear, breaths he cannot feel._

_Life is an ephemeral thing. Delicate. Especially with humanity._

_Jaskier isn’t human._

_Yet he lies, bloody, bruised, in Geralt’s arms, the immortality of his life seeping out of him like a dam drains a river._

_He can’t stop the blood, or prevent the fall._

_But still he tries, pressing his hands into wounds too deep to halt the bleeding, to stall time._

_He knows he knows someone could help - a healer maybe, but that would mean taking his hands - the pressure - off the ripped skin, and that he is not about to do._

_“Life ends Geralt,” Jaskier says to him, words echoing in his head like a ringing bell._

_No. It doesn’t. It shouldn’t._

_Not this soon at least._

_“I’m not letting you die,” he begs, to Jaskier, to himself, to whatever god is listening._

_He can’t lose the bard, he just can’t._

_“That’s not up to you, my dear, it’s up to destiny.”_

_Blood trickles from Jaskier’s mouth, dribbling down his chin, dropping - staining - blue silk._

_“Fuck destiny,” he growls, wiping the hot, deep red, liquid from the bard’s chin._

_Jaskier chuckles at his response, more blood falling from his mouth, from his ears, his nose. It’s like it’s never-ending - like it just won’t stop. He can’t stop it. No matter how hard he presses into wounds, or wipes away blood. There is no preventing the waterfall of death._

_“Stay with me, please,” he sobs, pressing their foreheads together, gripping the bard’s body tight. “Don’t leave me here.”_

_“I’m already gone.”_

_He holds on tighter, prays to the gods he doesn’t believe in, to let him keep his bard, his best friend, his love._

_“Stay… please.”_

_There’s no response, no heartbeat, no pulse. Just the affirmation of death, of finality tearing at his heart, his throat for cries he cannot hear._

***

Geralt wakes up, sweaty, and in panic.

Dreams are rare to him, but when he does have them… he only receives nightmares. Usually of the trials, the pain he went through to become who he is - the mutant he is.

Sometimes though, his brain drifts to somewhere else. Somewhere darker.

This was one of those times.

The lasting panic, the fear that coursed through his veins during his nightmare, pulses still, causing his breath to come out in short gasps, and his hands to shake ever so lightly.

He forces his eyes to take in the dark room, the moonlight pouring into through the window, the ugly paintings on the walls, the lute and washbasin sitting on the dresser, the warm bed he’s in with the even warmer body pressed against his side.

All this, the focus on his surroundings, brings his heartbeat to a slower - regular - pace, and his breathing to a calm.

He turns his head against the pillow, eyes and ears searching for the sign of life next to him.

Jaskier is curled up against him, head buried in his side, under his arm.

Over the course of the path, they’ve slept in the same bed, many times. So Geralt isn’t unaccustomed to Jaskier’s cuddly nature during sleep. It wouldn’t matter if it was a smoking hot, Jaskier would still cover him with lanky limbs as if it was freezing.

Luckily the winter chill is still lingering, so Geralt isn’t suffocating.

With a slow, deep breath, he moves his arm from its awkward angle and rests it under his head, doing his best not to wake the peaceful, adorable, bard.

He’s not sure how late, or early it is, but he knows his body isn’t tired anymore.

That thrum of life, of need to do something - act - is back, running through his bones - his blood like a wildfire.

But he can’t move. Not with Jaskier against him, his leg thrown across Geralt’s own.

He can feel Jaskier’s warm breaths on his skin.

_Mouth breather._

At least he doesn’t snore.

“Tell me…”

For a split second, he thinks Jaskier is awake, but then he takes in the sight of his relaxed, closed eyes, and his steady breathing, and he knows Jaskier is talking in his sleep again. Maybe they’re both having nightmares tonight.   
“Please, I…” Jaskier trails off, mumbling incoherent gibberish into Geralt’s side.

The bard’s face tugs into a scowl, nose scrunching up again like earlier that evening.

“Don’t go… Geralt _please_ ,” Jaskier whines, hand coming up to grip Geralt’s wrist, the one that isn’t buried under his head.

Geralt stares, not knowing what to do in response.

He shifts ever so carefully, onto his side, coming face to face with Jaskier, bringing his gripped wrist up between them.

“Not going anywhere,” He mutters back, whispering as to not startle or wake the bard.

Maybe, if he tries, he can soothe the nightmare away.

“But you… please stay, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll be better…”

The words break Geralt’s heart a bit, tearing at his chest with jagged claws.

He peels Jaskier’s hand off his wrist and interlocks their fingers instead, “You don’t need to be better, I’m staying right here.”

It’s what he wishes he could say in the light of day, to a conscious mind.

However he’s a coward.

“I have to be… you’ll leave if I don’t,” Jaskier sobs, a tear slipping from his left eye.

Geralt wipes the tear away, blaming himself, over and over and over, in his head, for this. It’s his fault, and his fault, only for this, for how hurt Jaskier is. If he had just took a minute to breathe on that goddamn mountain, he wouldn’t fucking be here, trying to convince an unconscious Jaskier, that he doesn’t want to leave him.

“No I won’t, I promise.”

It’s a dangerous thing, to make a promise. But Geralt is always making dangerous choices.

“You promise?”

Hope.

“I promise.”

The calm falls once more.

When Jaskier wakes up, he’s a little confused.

He doesn’t remember waking up, at all, he doesn’t even remember having a nightmare. But he must’ve, right? He hasn’t had a good nights rest in months.

Surely he woke up and his brain decided to forget.

He sits up, rubbing his temple as if that will help him remember the events of the previous night. Maybe it was the alcohol that helped him sleep, or forget at least. He doesn’t remember the details or happenings before he fell asleep so maybe he did wake up from a nightmare and he just forgot.

“You alright? Headache?” Geralt asks from where he’s stood across the room, already in his armour and boots.

Jaskier shakes his head, closing his eyes for a second, “No I… did I wake up last night… from a nightmare?”

Geralt turns away, putting his steel sword into its scabbard, before tying both steel and silver swords to his back.

“I’m not sure, was asleep the whole night,” The Witcher answers, _lying_ , but that’s unknown to the bard. He doesn’t give Jaskier a chance to even respond, grabbing the remainder of his things and heading to the door. “Hurry up and get ready, I want to reach Rinde by nightfall.”

The slam of the door - whether it was intentional, or not - startles Jaskier, making his shoulders jump, staring at the now empty room.

Empty except for Jaskier and his things.

His lute sits on the dresser, and his pack sits in the corner of the room beside his clothes.

Up until this moment, Jaskier was blissfully unaware of his state of undress. It makes for an extremely awkward realisation that he slept almost nude, in the same bed as Geralt of fucking Rivia.

“Fuck,” He mutters, rushing over to where his clothes lie, rumpled, on the floor. He tugs them on as quickly as he can, scanning the room for a sign of his boots.

They’re lying under the bed.

He has no idea how they got there but instead of spending more time wondering _how_ they got there, he just kneels down next to the bed and pulls them out, slips them on.

No wonder Geralt was eager to leave.

Jaskier is a fucking mess.

The path to Rinde isn’t long, but it sure is miserable.

Rainfall is common at this time of the year - when the snow is starting to melt, and the air is getting more cool than freezing. The storm clouds stick to the sky above all day, showering the three companions - two barely human, and one horse - all soaked down to their feet… hooves in Roach’s case.

It’s terrible walking weather, but Geralt seems determined to reach Rinde by nightfall, so Jaskier tries not to slow them down, pushing through the uncomfortable feeling of wet toes and a drenched doublet.

They’ve both walked through worse, of course; days so hot that the sun beaming down leaves even Geralt sunburned and breathless, journeys so cold that Jaskier was left shivering next to an indoor fireplace for hours.

Bad weather isn’t out of the norm for them. Nevertheless it’s still a miserable experience.

So when they break through the familiar arch of trees, the silhouette of a town sitting on the horizon, Jaskier picks up the pace, breathing a sigh of relief.

Geralt, having gotten off Roach hours ago to give her a break through the storm, follows Jaskier’s lead, picking up his own pace.

Rinde is a quaint town, located on the edge of the Pontar.

Jaskier doesn’t have splendid memories of the place. After all it was where Jaskier watched Geralt fall in love with a certain sorceress and forget the bard even existed.

But he keeps his head high, focusing on the promise of a warm bed, and an even warmer fireplace, to dry his soaked hair and clothes - maybe he can even enjoy a hot bath.

When they reach the village, most of the streets are bare, the bad weather pushing everyone indoors. Geralt leads them straight to the stables, to brush down Roach and let her rest. Then The Witcher and the Bard head to the local tavern.

Jaskier wasn’t told who they were meeting, so when they enter the Cranberry Tavern, greeted by a loud booming voice and bright cat eyes, his heart stops in his chest.

He hates that his first thought now is, ‘Should I run?’

His trust in Witchers has faded.

“Geralt! You made it!” The other Witcher, exclaims, pulling Geralt in for a hug.

Just like Geralt but unlike Eskel, this Witcher is wearing all black. His hair is cut short though, and there’s a scar running across the left side of his face. It’s not as impressive as Eskel’s but maybe he can get the story behind it, find his musical creativity once more.

“And this must be Jaskier!” The other Witcher lets go of Geralt, turning to Jaskier with a smile. “Heard so much about you.”

_‘Oh really?’_ Jaskier thinks, throwing Geralt a look, eyebrows raised.

“All good I hope,” he responds instead, noticing the way Geralt turns his head away, folding his arms over his chest.

This other Witcher, chuckles, slapping Geralt on the back, some amusement - a hint at some inside joke or secret laying between them in bright yellow eyes.

“Never a bad thing said.”

Jaskier’s heart stutters, stomach filling with unnecessary butterflies. He doesn’t like the way his heart flips, how his eyes search his companion for something to prove it to be true.

So much time passed, and here he is, still longing, still hoping.

“I find that hard to believe,” He can’t stop it from coming out, like word vomit.

The wounded look Geralt sends his way, makes it instantly regret it. But he doesn’t let it show on his face, standing straighter, fixing his eyes on this other Witcher, who is all smirks, and jokes, and teases.

“I find it hard to believe Geralt could say anything other than good things about you, honestly all he does at Kaer Morhen is -”

“Alright can we change the topic, I came here about something important, not just to catch up,” Geralt interrupts, eyes going harsh - threatening.

Jaskier stares, wide eyed.

“Yeah yeah, calm your knickers _White Wolf,_ ” The other Witcher turns back to Jaskier, offering his hand. “I’m Lambert by the way.”

Jaskier shakes his extended hand.

“Nice to meet you Lambert.”

Geralt leads them to a table in the back corner, where they take a seat, ordering a round of ale, and water for Jaskier. After last night, he’s not that interested in getting hammered.

The drinks come, and Lambert clears his throat, when the barmaid has left, “You wanna explain what you needed to talk about? Don’t tell me you’ve got another child of surprise?”

Jaskier smiles in amusement, leaning his arms on the table.

Geralt stares daggers at Lambert.

“No, and… Is Eskel still back at the keep, looking after her?” Geralt lowers his voice to a hush, glancing around at people nearby with uncertainty written in his gaze.

Jaskier furrows his brow, confused as fuck.

“Yeah she’s fine, was improving her one handed combat skills when I left,” Lambert responds, lifting his tankard and swirling around his drink.

“Wait who’s _her_?” Jaskier cuts into the conversation, receiving a look of almost guilt from Geralt.

It clicks in his head. The child of surprise. Ciri. He has her.

“You bastard!” Jaskier jumps to his feet, rage bubbling through his veins like an uncontrollable storm. “Years I told you to go to Cintra, to fucking find her, that the root of all your problems was that fucking child of -”

“Quiet down Jaskier,” Geralt stands, coming face to face with the bard. “You wanna tell the whole town where she is?”

Jaskier’s heart pounds, pulse running.

He can’t think straight.

For years it was like shouting at a brick wall, trying to get Geralt to just go to Cintra, to see Ciri at least once. But Geralt said no every time, would berate Jaskier for invading in matters that weren’t his to invade. As if Jaskier wasn’t the reason he was at that banquet in the first place. As if Jaskier didn’t return to Cintra every year on the same day, Ciri’s birthday, just to check on her - just to be sure she was safe, because his grouchy companion _wouldn’t_.

“Fine, I’ll shut up,” Jaskier snaps. “I’ll leave you Witchers be, wouldn’t want to _shovel_ more _shit_ onto your life.”

He turns and walks away, hands buzzing with a need to hit something, to land a punch to that stupidly gorgeous face.

Just when things were about to fall back to normal, when Jaskier was started to trust Geralt again, the lighting strikes.

He’s a fool.

A damn fool for thinking Geralt would just _change_.

***

_Every year it happens. It’s almost a tradition at this point._

_Every year when the autumn breeze turns ice cold, when the sun goes to hibernate behind the clouds, the Witcher and his Bard, travel down the same path until the familiar crossroads reach their feet._

_It’s always the same._

_Geralt will stop next to Roach, turning to look at Jaskier with those piercing golden eyes, and Jaskier’s heart will ache, more than it ever has before._

_Because every time they part, every winter, on that same crossroads - one path leading to Kaer Morhen, another leading to Redania, to Oxenfurt - every year, Jaskier stands there, with an ache so profound he doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to keep the words in… those three words that dance on his tongue - at the back of his throat - every time Geralt looks at him like_ **that** _._

_This year it’s no different._

_Geralt comes to a halt in the centre of the crossroads, feeding Roach a sugar cube before turning to the waiting bard._

_Jaskier stands still in response, glancing down the path closest to him - the one that leads down the Pontar, through to the art capitol of The Continent._

_Just like every year, he longs to stay by Geralt’s side, just like every year, his hands yearn to lace with strong, scarred ones. Just like every year, he faces what truly scares him; not Nekkers, or Griffins, or even Cockatrices… but being alone, being without what he’s come to need, want, love._

_“This is where we -”_

_“Part ways, I know, you say that every year,” Jaskier finishes for Geralt, putting on his best smile._

_Geralt, in his brooding, silent fashion, hums in response, turning to look at the mountains ahead, at the cloudy skies._

_So many folks have spoken of a Witcher's terror, how they’re barely human - mutant beasts, but Jaskier, has truly never seen someone as beautiful as Geralt. His eyes shine in the dark, his hair flows in the wind, and Jaskier could write an ode to every scar that lays upon fair skin._

_He’s desperately in love with someone, he was told was a beast._

_“Snow’s going to fall by evening,” Geralt mutters, and Jaskier nods._

_He wants his feet to move, wills them to do so. But they won’t budge._

_“Should head off then,” Jaskier replies, still not moving his feet._   
_How can when all he wants to do is stay. Stay by the side of a wolf - a white wolf - forever. Until he dies. Until he’s hundreds of years old or however long it takes for his stupid, useless, fae blood to run out of life._

_He wants to tell Geralt what lies on his tongue. He wants to get it off his chest, and watch the world crash around him. He wants his hopes to be true. He wants to bury himself in muscled, protective arms and stay there, until he rots. He wants…_

_Well, it doesn’t matter what he wants._

_Because winter has come, and just like every year he must bury his feelings, say his farewell and head down a lonely path to a life he doesn’t wish to lead._

_“Goodbye Geralt,” Jaskier forces out, taking a step back, hands tightly gripping the strap of his lute case. “See you in Spring.”_

_Jaskier turns away, heart breaking like it does every year._

_The tears well in his eyes like they do every year._

_And just like every year, he returns to Oxenfurt…_

_Alone._

***

Jaskier goes straight from the tavern, to the Inn.

The even heavier fall of rain, leaves him standing before the Innkeepers desk, dripping wet and asking for a room and a bath.

The Innkeeper, a gentle old man with a shining gold ring hanging on a necklace around his neck, takes his limited - admiringly short - coin, and sends his daughter to set up a bath in his room right away.

It’s an act of kindness that warms Jaskier’s heart for a moment or two, before he’s left standing in a room alone, wet, and miserable, and tired.

He knows all it will take is another sorry look from Geralt, and he’ll forgive him, because that’s just how weak Jaskier is… but for now he wants to believe he’ll have the strength to walk away from him again… to push Geralt away, like Geralt so often does to the bard.

“Sorry, my ass,” He says to the silence, dropping his lute and pack on the bed.

With tired feet, he walks into the conjoined room, where the bathtub lays in the centre, a shelve of soaps and oils on the wall.

It’s fancy for a cheap Inn.

Without another second of waiting, he takes off his boots and strips out his clothes, his smalls.

When his body drifts down into warm, soapy water, the tension in his shoulders ease, his muscles relax, and his feet stop _aching_.

It’s a piece of heaven after a lifetime of hell.

He lays his head back on the edge of the bath, closing his eyes for a moment, neglecting the need to wash for now, in favour of letting the warmth soothe his exhausted bones.

Needless to say, he doesn’t realise how long his eyes have been closed until there’s a creak in the floorboards and he snaps his eyes open to see Geralt standing the doorway, looking a bit like a kicked puppy… a wet kicked puppy.

Jaskier turns his head, looks down at the bubbles.

The tension starts to return to his shoulders, that uneasiness returning to his gut almost as fast as it faded.

He doesn’t want to fight right now. Not when he’s just found some sense of calm.

Geralt doesn’t say a word though.

Instead, the Witcher pulls up a stool next to the tub, and hands Jaskier a bar of lavender soap - Jaskier’s favourite.

“What… thank you,” he mutters, taking the soap despite the uncertainty in his brain. He doesn’t know what Geralt is doing, or why, and that scares him a bit.

Before he can even do anything with the soap, there are shampoo covered fingers in his hair, pressing into his scalp like it’s something Geralt has done before - on many occasion. Jaskier can barely breathe.

It’s _not_ though - something they’ve done before. Yeah, Jaskier has untangled, brushed, braided, and washed Geralt’s hair, many a time. But that’s different. The Witcher spent his days protecting entire villages. He always came back, tired and dazed from potions. The least Jaskier could do was get Drowner blood out of those white locks.

“All those times, I cleaned guts out of your hair, I did it out of kindness, because I wanted to… you’re not obligated to return the favour,” Jaskier says, pushing the words out so they’re firm and lined with assurance.

Geralt hums, “I know.”

The fingers don’t leave Jaskier, instead, they run deeper, through the longer strands near the front of the bard’s head.

It feels _good_.

He can’t remember the last time someone ran their fingers through his hair. It feels like years, like a century.

It was probably his father, the last person to use their hands for simple kindness and not for beating Jaskier, or to get something in return. His father used to braid his hair, if you would believe it - when Jaskier went through a phase, at age nine, where he wanted to grow out his hair.

He hated it, it always got in his face, tickled his chin when he would run through the woods behind their house.

“Coen, The Witcher that… almost killed you at the den,” Geralt starts. “He went to Lambert before he went to me. Said something about a guardsman, one with a Cintrian accent, he spoke to Coen, told him about the hideout.”

Jaskier goes to turn around, to look at Geralt, but a steady hand rests on his shoulder.

“Keep your head still, you’ve got mud in your hair.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Jaskier groans, mindlessly washing his arms with soap to distract himself from Geralt’s _distracting_ hands. “So what does that mean? Someone, from Cintra found out about the Fae and informed a Witcher.”

The fingers leave his scalp, before a hand returns, resting on the side of his neck, thumb pushing his head softly, forward. Water trickles over his head, dripping down his face.

“No, I… Coen told Lambert the guardsman seemed to be part of a larger group, or was hiring him under someone else - someone more powerful… I think this goes deeper than a simple contract.”

Calloused fingers return to his head, rubbing conditioner through the short locks.   
A moment of silence falls upon the room, Geralt gently working knots and mud out of Jaskier’s hair as the bard, himself, washes the dirt off his legs.

Its a surprisingly comfortable moment. One Jaskier wouldn’t have ever guessed he’d be in, but glad he is.

“I really am sorry Jas,” Geralt’s voice is soft, barely a tremor of sound. “What I said on that mountain… I didn’t mean it. I was just angry, frustrated… and I took it out on you because you were closest.”

Jaskier feels the fist around his heart loosen.

He forgives him, like he always does, how could he not?

“I don’t hate you, I need you to know that,” Fingers bury under wavy hair, the pressure easing away discomfort. “You’re not… you’re not a burden, you aren’t to blame for my fuck ups. You’ve helped me all these years, so I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay Geralt. I forgive you… I already did. I’m sorry for having an outburst like that, I wasn’t thinking.”

The Witcher gets up, dries his hands, retreats to the door.

He seems to realise something, stopping in the doorway to turn and look at Jaskier with that same kicked look in his eyes.

“I…”

He looks down, at the floor, whatever he was going to say lost in the sea of thoughts that, that head must be filled to the brim with. Jaskier always wonders how much of what Geralt _wants_ to say gets filed under what he _can’t_ say.

“I’m proud, to have you as a friend.”

Jaskier gets the sense that it’s not what he wanted to say, at least not entirely. There’s something he’s leaving out. But Jaskier doesn’t pry, for the words hit too close to home, water welling behind his eyes.

“I _know_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I had a few troubles with this one, so if there are plenty of mistakes, just tell me... I didn't have the energy to read over it again, and that's on me so yeah
> 
> Thanks, as always, I'm happy to receive constructive criticism.

**Author's Note:**

> Pls feel free to give me advice and criticism, I'm always looking to improve. Also, tell me what you think of the plot and stuff cause I wanna know what yall think.


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